FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


DivMoa    ^CB> 
Stctfoa        '  7^ 


MAY    6  1933 


P0EM%(Ws(.^ 


SACRED    AND    SECULAR 


REV.  WILLIAM  CEOSWELL,  D.  D. 


EDITED,    WITH    A    MEMOIR, 


A.  CLEVELAND  COXE. 


Tu  tarneu  amisso  nonnunquam  flebis  amico : 
Fas  est  praeteritos  semper  amare  viros. 

Phopebt. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS. 


M  DCCC  LXI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  bj 

TICK  NOR     AND     FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts 


[Approved  by  the  Committee  of  General  Literature  of  the  Gen- 
eral Protestant  Episcopal  Sunday-School  Union  and  Church  Book 
Society,  and  sold  at  the  Depository,  762  Broadway,  New  York.] 


1'niversity  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch.  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


TO 


GEORGE  CHEYNE  SHATTUCK,  M.  D., 

&c,  &c,  &c. 

3T t>f »   Volume   fs    fnscrfbe), 

AS  A  RECORD 

OF   THAT   FAITHFUL   FRIENDSHIP 

WHICH   SO   GREATLY   CONTRIBUTED   TO  THE   HAPPINESS   AND   USEFUL- 
NESS   OF    THE    LATER    YEARS    OF 

CROSWELL, 

AND     AS     A     TOKEN 
OF  THE   EDITOR'S   PERSONAL  REGARD. 


PREFACE 


The  Editor  of  these  poems  is  indebted  for  the 
entire  collection  to  the  labours  and  industry  of  the 
poet's  father,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Croswell,  late  of  New 
Haven.  On  inquiry,  in  every  quarter  which  could 
naturally  be  looked  to,  he  has  been  unable  to  find 
a  single  additional  verse  which  he  could,  with  con- 
fidence, add  to  this  volume  as  an  original  work  of 
its  author. 

The  paternal  memoir,  too,  has  supplied  the  basis 
for  the  short  biography  herewith  presented ;  but  it 
is  not  the  less,  on  that  account,  an  original  sketch 
of  the  poet's  life  and  character,  made  up  from 
personal  acquaintance,  and  from  the  testimony  of 
common  friends. 

The  task  of  rearranging,  revising,  and,  in  short, 


vi  PREFACE. 

of  editing  tne  poems,  has  nevertheless  been  one 
of  more  care,  anxiety,  and  labour  than  might  seem 
probable.  The  responsibility  of  the  editor  to  the 
public,  and  to  a  departed  friend,  has  often  been 
deeply  felt,  especially  when  the  claims  of  the  one 
party  have  seemed  to  clash  with  those  of  the  other. 
The  editor  has  no  doubt  that  the  quality  of  the 
volume  has  been  lowered  by  the  retaining  of 
poems  which  their  author  would  never  have  per- 
mitted to  reappear,  in  a  permanent  form;  and 
yet  the  public  might  justly  censure  a  mere  editor 
for  presuming  to  omit  any  known  production  of 
one  whose  every  line  is  dear  to  somebody.  He 
has,  therefore,  done  his  best,  with  a  conscientious 
regard  to  the  question  of  duty,  always  endeavouring 
to  keep  before  his  eye  the  probable  wishes  of  his 
friend,  so  far  as  he  can  be  conceived  of  as  a  party 
to  the  republication  of  poems  in  which  the  affec- 
tion of  others  has  overruled  his  morbid  desire  to 
suppress  them. 

The  chronological  order  of  the  poems  preserved 
in  the  memoir  by  the  poet's  father  has  been  entire- 
ly changed,   as   unsuitable   to  the  design  of  this 


PREFACE.  vii 

volume.  In  their  present  form,  the  poems  are  to 
be  introduced  to  entire  strangers,  if  not  to  another 
generation  ;  and,  as  with  them  the  impression  to 
be  made  must  be  the  product  of  essential  merit 
only,  it  has  seemed  all-important  to  give  them 
every  advantage  of  arrangement,  and  to  strip 
them  of  such  purely  local  and  momentary  associa- 
tions, as  give  to  a  volume  of  poetry  a  poor  and 
provincial  aspect.  All  secondary  and  accidental 
matter  has  been  banished  from  the  text,  but  will  be 
found  in  the  Notes ;  so  that  the  poetry  will  speak 
for  itself  to  those  who  wish  to  see  the  poetry,  while 
personal  friends  will  find  the  facts  which  may  in- 
terest them  still  kept  in  the  record. 

The  Sonnets  are,  in  the  opinion  of  the  editor, 
the  finest  of  Dr.  Croswell's  poems,  and  the  most 
significant  of  those  real  powers  which  he  suppressed 
and  sacrificed  to  a  life  of  practical  duty.  They 
are  also  capable  of  being  so  placed  together  as 
to  resemble,  in  some  degree,  a  continuous  work. 
Reserving  such  as  are  of  local  and  personal  in- 
terest, therefore,  for  the  last,  and  bringing  first 
into  notice  those  which  are  their  own  interpreters, 


viii  PREFACE. 

and  most  likely  to  awaken  universal  sympathy, 
the  Sonnets  are  here  presented  as  the  author's 
choice  productions,  and  in  the  form  of  one  com- 
plete work.  The  sonnet  reserved  for  the  closing 
one  gives  a  finish  to  the  series,  and  seems,  to 
the  editor,  a  beautiful,  though  unconscious  por- 
traiture of  the  poet  himself,  in  his  untimely  (but 
not,  for  himself,  premature)  demise.  It  is  sufficient 
to  add,  that,  in  the  arrangement  and  collocation  of 
the  other  poems,  similar  views  of  propriety  have 
prevailed  over  other  considerations  ;  and  each 
poem  stands  just  where  it  does,  as  the  result  of 
much  reflection  as  to  its  fitting  place, —  or,  in  other 
words,  as  to  the  best  setting  for  the  display  of  its 
special  lustre  as  a  gem. 

A.  C.  C. 

Baltimore,  Nov.  9, 1860. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Memoir xv 

SONNETS. 

Winter 3 

Christmas 4 

Saint  John  the  Evangelist 5 

The  Seven  Churches 6 

Epiphany 7 

The  Far  West 8 

Crete 9 

Lent 10 

Christ  Bearing  the  Cross 11 

To  the  Hepatica  Triloba,  found  in  March 12 

Easter 13 

Infant  Baptism 14 

Confirmation 15 

The  Knot 16 

Communion  of  the  Sick 17 

The  Knell 18 

Saint  James  the  Apostle 19 

Saint  Bartholomew 20 


x  CONTENTS. 

Saint  Matthew 21 

Michaelmas 22 

Saint  Luke 23 

Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs 24 

Valedictory 25 

Palinode 26 

A  Prayer,  on  beginning  a  Periodical  named   "  The 

Watchman" 27 

Trinity  College,  Hartford 28 

On  the  Death  of  a  Pastor 29 

Burial  of  Ashmun 30 

Memorial  of  a  Coloured  Clergyman  ordained  for  a 

Mission  to  Africa 31 

To  a  Friend,  on  his  Consecration  to  the  Episcopate    .  32 

The  Catechist    .' 33 

In  an  Album 34 

To  a  Winged  Figure  by  Raphael 35 

Meditation  on  the  Death  of  a  Clergyman 36 

POEMS. 

Clouds 39 

Drink,  and  Away ! 41 

Wheelock  Cottage,  Medfield 43 

The  Robin's  Nest,  destroyed  by  a  Cat 45 

Nature  and  Revelation 46 

A  Night  Thought ' 47 

Greece 48 

The  Brook  Kedron 49 

The  Synagogue 51 

Midnight  Thought 54 

De  Profundis 55 

Palestine 56 

Africa 59 


CONTENTS.  xi 

South-Sea  Missionaries Gl 

The  Feast  of  Tabernacles 63 

The  Meeting  of  the  Tribes 64 

The  Missionary's  Farewell 60 

Stanzas 68 

The  Ordinal 69 

Recollections  of  St.  Paul's  Day 72 

Christ  Church,  Boston 74 

Christ  Church 77 

A  Christmas  Evening  Pastoral 79 

St.  John  Baptist's  Day 83 

From  the  Antique 86 

To  my  Father 88 

To  my  Mother   ". 90 

Epithalamiurn 92 

A  Daughter's  Portion 94 

To 97 

To  my  Sister 98 

Loneliness      .     . 99 

To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  a  Watch-case  and  a  Ther- 
mometer       100 

The  Name  of  Mary 101 

To  *  *  *  * 102 

Stanzas,  on  the  Death  of  an  aged  Servant  of  God   .     .  104 

In  Memory  of  D.  W 106 

To  my  Namesake,  on  his  Baptism 108 

To  a  Friend,   embarking  in  a   Ship  named    "  The 

Heber" 110 

To  my  Godson,  William  Croswell  Doane Ill 

Lament 113 

To  the  Rev.  Thomas  Winthrop  Coit,  D.  D 115 

Elegiac 117 

Bishop  White 119 


xii  CONTENTS. 

Bishop  Griswold's  Memorial 121 

Lines  written  in  the  Chamber  where  Bishop  Hobart 

died,  on  the  tenth  Anniversary 124 

Memorial  of  my  beloved  Friend  and  Predecessor, 

the  Rev.  William  Lucas 127 

Ad  Amicum 128 

Stanzas  written  in  a  copy  of  Milton's  Poems  ...  131 

Fragment 133 

To  a  Child,  on  her  Birthday,  in  September  ....  135 

To  Sophia 137 

To  a  Lady,  with  a  Sprig  of  Myrtle 138 

For  a  Child's  Album 139 

Fragment 140 

Home 141 

Absence 142 

The  Two  Graves 143 

New- Year  Thoughts 148 

A  New  Year's  Address 152 

Valentines 157 

The  Chapel  Bell,  Yale  College 161 

An  Apology 165 

Architectural 166 

Nahant 169 

Old  North  Cock 170 

New  Haven 172 

Prison  Hymn,  by  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots      ....  175 

Lake  Owasco 176 

Albany 178 

Fragments 1S3 

Convocation  Poem 186 

Psalm  1 202 

Psalm  CXXXIII 204 

Psalm  CXXXIV 205 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

Psalm  CXXXVII 206 

Psalm  CL 208 

Advent 209 

Hymu  for  Advent 211 

Christmas 213 

Vigil  of  the  Circumcision 214 

The  Epiphany 215 

First  Sunday  after  Epiphany 216 

Second  Sunday  after  Epiphany 217 

Quinquagesima  Sunday 218 

Lent 219 

Hymn  for  the  First  Sunday  after  Easter 221 

Hymn  for  Whitsunday 223 

Reveille 225 

Saint  Thomas 226 

Saint  Paul 227 

Saint  Stephen 229 

Hymn  for  Saint  Matthew's  Day 230 

Saint  Andrew's  Day 232 

Sunday-School  Hymn 234 

The  Upper  Eoom,  in  which  a  Sunday-School  was 

kept 235 

Flowers 236 

Hymn,  for  the  Chapel  of  a  Lunatic  Hospital    .     .    .  238 

Baptismal  Hymn 240 

Charity  Hymn 241 

Ode,  for  Christmas  Eve 243 

Ode,  for  the  Re-opening  of  Christ  Church,  Boston    .  245 

Song  of  Faith 247 

Paraphrase,  "  By  their  Fruits  ye  shall  know  them  "  249 

The  Missionary 251 

Sunday-School  Hymn 252 

A  Prayer 254 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

Traveller's  Hymn 255 

Hymn  for  Sisters  of  Mercy 256 

Hvmns  of  the  Ancient  Time 257 


Notes 265 


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MEMOIR 


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MEMOIR 


Good  men  are  not  so  many  among  mankind  that 
we  can  afford  to  lose  the  memory  of  any  one  who 
has  been  eminently  pure  and  lovely.  Such  men, 
when  they  die,  bequeath  an  example  to  their  coun- 
try and  to  after  times  which  is  more  precious  than 
rubies.  A  saint  of  God  leaves  to  the  Church,  when 
he  departs,  the  lustre  of  his  character.  A  man  of 
genius  who  has  been  as  truly  humble  as  he  was 
great,  should  begin  to  be  known  and  honoured  at 
least  when  he  is  gone  where  popular  praise  can  no 
longer  offend  him.  For  his  reputation  is  no  longer 
his  own  ;  it  is  the  heritage  of  his  native  land,  of  the 
schools  that  reared  him,  of  the  friends  that  loved 
him,  of  the  world  itself  that  ought  to  revere  him,  and 
of  unborn  generations  that  should  be  taught  to  imi- 
tate him.  Such  are  the  reasons  wThich  induce  me 
to  write  a  Memoir  of  an  admired  and  beloved  friend, 
now  with  God.     I  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  ;  I 

B 


xviii  MEMOIR. 

rejoice  to  testify  to  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  how 
sincerely  I  venerated  him  whose  name  they  bear; 
but  a  sense  of  duty  to  the  times  and  to  the  Church, 
is  my  chief  motive  in  calling  fresh  attention  to  the 
name  and  character  of  one  who  is  worthy  to  be 
had  in  perpetual  remembrance. 

William  Croswell  was  born  on  the  seventh 
of  November,  1804,  at  Hudson,  in  the  County 
of  Columbia  and  State  of  New  York.  This  town 
shares  the  name  of  the  old  navigator  with  the  river 
on  which  it  is  built,  and  the  eyes  of  the  young  poet 
first  opened  amid  scenes  of  natural  beauty  which 
are  not  surpassed  in  America.  There  the  Kaats- 
kills  rear  their  summits  in  the  degree  of  distance 
most  favorable  for  the  effects  of  light  and  shade, 
and  "  Cloudland,"  which  he  lived  to  sing  so  thrill- 
ingly,  reveals  itself  nowhere  more  gloriously  of  a 
summer  evening  than  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  his  birthplace.  The  year  of  his  birth  was 
a  memorable  one  among  the  kingdoms  of  the  world, 
but  that  is  of  little  moment  in  the  history  of  one 
whose  life  was  hid  with  Christ  in  God. 

He  was  the  son  of  Harry  Croswell,  Esq.,  who,  not 
long  after  his  birth,  conformed  to  the  Church,  took 
holy  orders,  and  subsequently  became  an  eminent  di- 
vine in  the  Diocese  of  Connecticut,  where  he  lived  in 
honour  and  usefulness  to  a  venerable  age,  surviving 
his  son,  and  becoming  his  biographer.     The  mother 


MEMOIR.  xix 

of  our  poet  was  a  lady  of  respectable  family  in  New 
Haven,  whose  maiden-name  was  Sherman.  He  was 
the  third  of  seven  children,  and  was  not  baptized 
till  he  was  nine  years  old,  when,  with  his  mother, 
and  the  other  children  then  living,  he  received  that 
sacrament  on  the  13th  of  June,  1813.  His  father 
was  ordained  in  the  month  of  May  of  the  following 
year,  and  on  New- Year's  Day,  1815,  entered  upon 
the  Rectorship  of  Trinity  Church,  New  Haven, 
where  he  remained  till  his  death,  in  1858.  That 
beautiful  little  Puritan  Capital,  which  its  inhabitants 
love  to  call  "  the  City  of  Elms,"  and  which  has 
since  been  distinguished  for  the  rapid  growth  in  it 
of  the  Church,  was  the  scene  of  William's  boyhood. 
As  New  Haven  was  the  seat  of  Yale  College,  then 
the  most  prominent  of  our  American  schools,  he 
was  surrounded  with  influences  favourable  to  the 
development  of  those  literary  tastes  which  he  pos- 
sessed even  in  childhood  ;  and  the  paternal  in- 
fluence, if  not  his  own  elevated  instincts,  were  his 
sufficient  safeguard  against  what  was  unfavourable 
in  the  atmosphere  of  a  narrow  sectarianism.  The 
Church  in  New  Haven,  under  his  father's  ministry, 
soon  began  to  attract  to  its  pale  many  of  the  best 
and  most  refined  of  the  Puritan  families,  and  the 
vigorous  growth  of  church  principles  was  rather 
stimulated  than  depressed  by  the  daily  encounter 
of  unreasonable  prejudices.    It  is  pleasant  to  know, 


xx  MEMOIR. 

however,  that  his  father's  churchmanship,  like  his 
own,  was  so  amiably  maintained  that  the  kindliest 
feelings  always  existed  between  the  churehmen  ot 
New  Haven  and  their  neighbours. 

In  outline,  the  story  of  such  a  life  as  Croswell's 
may  be  told  very  briefly.  Under  the  careful  tutor- 
ship of  Mr.  Joel  Jones,  who  subsequently  rose  to 
the  presidency  of  Girard  College,  he  was  prepared 
for  Yale  College,  which  he  entered  in  1818  ;  an 
important  year  in  the  history  of  the  American 
Church,  if,  as  the  Bishop  of  Maine  has  said,  it  was 
the  first  year  of  marked  revival,  after  the  Revolu- 
tion had  paralyzed  it.  In  his  college  course  there 
seems  to  have  been  nothing  specially  indicative  of 
his  superiority,  for  a  constitutional  diffidence  with- 
held him  at  all  times  from  self-assertion,  and  at 
times,  perhaps,  from  effort.  He  was  an  industrious 
student  and  a  great  reader,  especially  of  the  good 
old  authors  of  our  own  language.  His  choice  of  the 
sacred  calling  was  not  made  during  his  college  life, 
his  conscientious  feelings  of  unworthiness  maintain- 
ing a  contest  with  his  natural  tastes  and  inclina- 
tions, and  for  a  time  overmastering  them.  He  took 
his  Bachelor's  degree  in  1822,  and  in  1824  we  find 
him  still  undecided  as  to  a  profession,  but  finally 
declining  the  proposal  of  an  uncle  who  desired  to 
initiate  him  into  the  study  of  medicine,  influenced, 
in  part,  by  the  horrible  impressions  he  had  received 


MEMOIR.  xxi 

at  an  anatomical  lecture  illustrated  by  dissections. 
"  An  extreme  nervous  sensibility  and  delicacy  of 
feeling,"  says  his  fatter,  "  were  his  abiding  char- 
acteristics through  life  ; "  a  remark  which  must  be 
borne  in  mind  at  every  stage  of  his  career,  by  those 
who  would  fully  comprehend  what  he  did,  and  what 
he  omitted  to  do.  It  will  explain,  for  example,  his 
rigid  suppression  of  his  juvenile  poems,  and  the  fact 
that  after  writing  and  publicly  pronouncing,  with 
great  applause,  at  New  Haven,  at  the  request  of  the 
civic  authorities,  a  poem  of  several  hundred  lines  in 
honour  of  the  national  anniversary,  he  not  only  re- 
fused to  let  it  be  published,  but  destroyed  it,  with  that 
generous  sort  of  shame  which  true  genius  is  sure  to 
feel  when  it  receives  extravagant  commendation. 

In  1825  he  seems  to  have  made  an  experiment 
with  law-studies,  and  it  is  not  till  the  next  year 
that  we  find  him,  having  attained  his  majority,  re- 
solved on  an  earnest  Christian  life,  and  on  the  high 
calling  of  a  minister  of  Christ.  In  the  autumn  of 
1826,  he  entered  the  Seminary  in  Chelsea,  which 
at  that  time  was  far  removed  from  the  streets  of 
New  York,  and  stood  on  the  very  brink  of  the 
Hudson.  The  Gothic  architecture,  though  in  a 
very  imperfect  form,  was  then  only  just  introduced 
among  us,  and  the  Seminary  building  seems  to 
have  impressed  very  favourably  the  young  Ecclesi- 
astic, by  its  partial  likeness  to  the  academic  abodes 


xxii  MEMOIR. 

of  the  mother  country.  A  deeper  impression,  how- 
ever, was  produced  in  his  mind  and  character,  by 
the  charge  to  the  clergy  of  his  diocese  which  Bishop 
Hobart  delivered  just  at  that  time,  and  which 
young  Croswell  was  so  fortunate  as  to  hear.  That 
justly  celebrated  prelate  had  just  returned  from  a 
fruitful  visitation  of  the  churches  and  missionary 
regions  of  Xew  York,  and  his  abundant  labours, 
with  the  energy,  fervour,  and  zeal  of  which  his 
charge  was  an  embodiment,  could  not  but  write 
themselves  in  the  heart  of  a  pious  and  enthusiastic 
candidate  for  Holy  Orders. 

To  the  great  regret  of  the  sons  of  Chelsea,  Mr. 
Croswell  did  not  remain  long  enough  in  the  Semi- 
nary  to  become  their  fellow-graduate.  His  health 
began  to  suffer  ;  and  after  a  short  time  he  removed 
to  Hartford,  where  he  pursued  his  theological 
studies  in  the  College,  and  formed  that  intimate 
acquaintance  with  Professor  Doane  which  was  des- 
tined to  leave  its  mark  on  the  Church,  as  well  as 
upon  himself  and  his  friends.  The  undertaking  of 
"  The  Watchman,"  in  1827,  by  these  faithful  allies 
was  a  considerable  event  in  the  history  of  the 
Church,  and  deserves  more  than  casual  mention. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Anglican  Church 
in  America  had  been  cut  down  to  its  very  roots  by 
the  Revolution,  and  that  few  signs  of  vigorous  up- 
growth began  to  appear  before  this  period.     Many 


MEMOIR.  xxiii 

things  now  began  to  encourage  those  who  had  long 
laboured,  apparently  in  vain,  to  convince  their  coun- 
trymen of  the  inestimable  value  of  a  historical  form 
of  the  Gospel,  and  of  a  connection  through  it  with 
the  venerable  past,  with  the  great  body  of  the 
Christian  family  in  all  ages,  and  with  Christ  him- 
self, personally,  as  its  author.  Bishop  Hobart,  as  the 
doctrinal  champion  of  the  Church,  had  succeeded 
in  awakening  the  minds  of  men  to  the  vast  stores  of 
sanctified  erudition  which  had  been  expended  by 
the  divines  of  England  upon  the  reformation  and 
defence  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  to  the  contrast 
afforded  by  the  system  of  Apostolic  orthodoxy,  and 
ritual  completeness,  when  compared  with  a  narrow 
and  discordant  Puritanism.  The  missionary  zeal 
of  Bishop  Chase  was  already  refuting  the  inveter- 
ate prejudices  which  had  associated  the  daughter 
church  with  the  English  government,  and  con- 
demned it,  as  an  exotic,  to  a  short  and  feeble  exist- 
ence. It  was  time  that  she  should  begin  to  drop 
the  swaddling-clothes  of  her  colonial  nursing,  and 
put  on  the  beautiful  garments  which  rightfully  be- 
long to  her.  The  writings  of  Cooper  and  Irving 
had  done  something  to  obliterate  ill-feeling,  and 
to  prepare  a  new  generation  to  appreciate  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  her  liturgy  and  the  simple 
dignity  of  her  ceremonial.  The  rise  in  England  of 
a  new  literature,  reproducing  the  old  and  super- 


xxiv  MEMOIR. 

scding  the  popular  latitudinarianisin  of  the  Hano- 
verian epoch,  was  marked  by  the  appearance  of 
such  publications  as  the  "  Christian  Year,"  and  the 
"  Rectory  of  Valehead."  A  similar  work  was  to 
be  done  here ;  and  by  the  refined  and  deeply  relig- 
ious character  they  were  able  to  impart  to  the 
"  Watchman,"  the  young  friends  Doane  and  Cros- 
well  become  the  lucida  sidera  of  a  brightening  day- 
dawn  in  the  American  Church.  However  uncon- 
sciously, there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  whole 
country  received,  originally  from  their  editorial  la- 
bours, more  just  and  enlightened  impressions  of  that 
great  system  of  religious  truth  which  a  feeble  pro- 
vincialism had  affected  to  treat  as  if  it  were  not 
identified  with  the  language  and  the  history  of  our 
race,  and  as  if  it  could  be  less  than  illustrious  in  the 
memory  of  its  long  line  of  worthies  in  every  rank 
of  the  laity,  and  of  its  great  divines  and  noble 
martyrs. 

In  the  College  at  Hartford,  Mr.  Croswell  found 
himself  associated  with  a  number  of  accomplished 
gentlemen.  Its  President  was  the  Bishop  of  Connec- 
ticut, a  prelate  whose  amiable  character,  adorned 
by  liberal  culture,  refined  tastes,  and  great  prac- 
tical wisdom,  is  still  conspicuous  in  the  higli  po- 
sition, to  which  his  seniority  entitles  him,  of  the 
Presidency  of  the  House  of  Bishops.  Of  Mr. 
Doane,  who  afterwards  became  the  Bishop  of  New 


MEMOIR.  xxv 

Jersey,  mention  has  been  already  made.  Dr.  Hum- 
phreys, who  subsequently  presided  for  many  years 
over  St.  John's  College  at  Annapolis,  was  also  one  of 
the  Professors ;  and  so  was  Dr.  Potter,  now  Provis- 
ional Bishop  of  New  York.  But  pre-eminent  among 
these  distinguished  scholars  was  Dr.  Jarvis,  the 
learned  chronologist  and  sound  divine,  whose  per- 
sonal dignity  and  great  erudition,  combined  with 
the  tastes  and  acquirements  imparted  by  a  long 
residence  in  foreign  countries,  gave  him,  before  his 
death,  the  reputation  of  the  most  accomplished 
scholar  of  America.  Another  ornament  of  the 
College  was  Dr.  Wheaton,  then  Rector  of  Christ 
Church,  and  himself  the  architect  of  that  noble  fab- 
ric, which,  though  now  far  in  the  rear  of  progress 
in  Gothic  art,  was  at  the  time  of  its  building  even 
farther  in  advance  of  everything  of  the  kind  in 
America.  Even  in  England,  the  Gothic  churches 
of  the  same  date  were  not  greatly  superior.  To 
these  names  of  gifted  persons,  whose  society  could 
not  but  exercise  a  great  influence  on  the  youthful 
genius  of  Croswell,  might  be  added  those  of  sev- 
eral eminent  laymen,  and  of  a  number  of  ladies  of 
cultivated  minds,  who  contributed  largely  to  the 
attractions  of  Hartford.  He  derived  not  a  little  of 
pleasure  and  profit  from  their  frequent  reunions  at 
the  house  of  Dr.  Sumner,  a  well-read  physician, 
and  a  man  of  science,  to  whose  tastes  and  efforts, 


xxvi  MEMOIR. 

with  those  of  the  President,  the  College  owed  a  fine 
botanical  garden,  and  that  liberal  adornment  of  the 
grounds  with  trees  and  shrubs  which  has  gradually 
diffused  itself  through  the  town,  and  made  Hartford, 
with  its  beautiful  park,  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
cities  in  the  land.  For  Trinity  College  he  ever 
retained,  therefore,  the  affection  of  a  son ;  and  in 
after  years,  as  I  have  walked  with  him  in  those  aca- 
demic shades,  he  took  pleasure  in  imparting  to  me 
the  traditions  of  the  spot,  and  all  his  delightful 
recollections  of  the  past.  Once  he  pointed  to  a 
certain  window,  and  said,  "  That  was  Doane's 
room  !  There  we  used  to  talk  over  our  books,  old 
and  new,  and  study,  and  write  rhymes."  He  men- 
tioned the  names  of  several  who  had  since  been  the 
authors  of  graceful  verse.  "  What  a  Parnassus 
you  made  of  it ! "  said  I.  u  Nay,  rather,"  he  an- 
swered, "  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of  Pembroke  College, 
we  were  a  nest  of  singing-birds" 

The  friendship  which  he  thus  formed  with  Mr. 
Doane  was  a  romantic  one,  and  it  was  destined  to 
be  perpetuated,  with  no  considerable  abatement, 
till  his  death.  Under  the  genial  excitement  of  its 
earliest  enjoyments,  the  genius  of  Croswell  reached 
its  flowering  season.  Relieving  his  beloved  asso- 
ciate of  the  greater  part  of  the  editorial  burdens,  he 
not  only  did  the  drudgery  of  "  The  Watchman," 
but  continued  to  adorn  it  with  a  series  of  charrnins 


MEMOIR.  xxvii 

sonnets,  hymns,  and  other  poems.  Of  these  per- 
haps the  sweetest  are  his  verses  on  "  The  Ordinal," 
describing  minutely  his  own  ordination  as  a  deacon, 
in  his  father's  cliurch  at  New  Haven,  and  the  feel- 
ings inspired  by  the  solemnity.  This  was  in  1828, 
and  soon  after  Mr.  Doane  become  Rector  of  Trin- 
ity Church  in  Boston.  "With  the  second  volume  of 
"  The  Watchman  "  closed  Mr.  Cros well's  editorial 
career,  and  also  his  life  in  Hartford.  On  the  Feast 
of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  1829,  he  was  ordained 
to  the  priesthood  by  the  Bishop  of  Massachusetts, 
(Dr.  Griswold,)  and  entered  on  the  rectorship  of 
Christ  Church,  in  Boston.  To  a  man  of  his  tastes 
and  sensibilities,  there  could  not  have  been  com- 
mitted a  more  attractive  charge.  It  was  neither  a 
"  fashionable  church,"  nor  a  post  for  popular  display; 
still  less  was  it  a  fat  incumbency.  He  found  in  it  a 
cure  of  souls,  and  that  was  all  he  desired :  but  he 
was  the  man  of  all  others  to  find  in  the  antiquity 
and  other  peculiarities  of  the  church  a  charm 
which  endeared  to  him,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  its 
very  stones  and  timbers.  It  was  an  old  colonial 
fabric,  and  one  of  the  very  few  in  America  which 
boasted  a  chime  of  bells.  Its  altar-service  of  silver 
was  the  gift  of  King  George  the  Second  in  1733, 
and  the  bells  were  added  only  ten  years  later,  by 
friends  of  the  Colonial  Church  in  England.  From 
its  tower,  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill  had  been 


xxviii  MEMOIR. 

watched  by  the  chief  men  of  the  Province.  Sub- 
sequently, Washington  had  worshipped  beneath  its 
roof;  and  one  of  the  earliest  marble  busts  of  the 
first  President  adorned  its  walls.  In  its  vaults  re- 
posed the  dead ;  and  many  authentic  stories  of  the 
young  rector's  predecessors  were  full  of  interest  for 
him.  But  these  were  the  mere  accidents  of  his 
position.  Xo  one  that  knew  him  ever  doubted  that 
he  found  his  deepest  satisfaction  in  feeding  Christ's 
sheep  ;  in  going  in  and  out  among  them,  with  a 
holy  love  for  their  souls,  that  governed  all  his 
actions  ;  and  in  the  continual  prayers  which  he 
offered,  publicly  and  privately,  for  the  salvation 
of  all  mankind. 

The  term  of  two-and-twenty  years  which  he 
passed  in  the  duties  of  his  sacred  office  was  wholly 
given  to  Boston,  if  we  except  the  brief  episode  of 
his  residence  at  Auburn.  His  junior  ministry 
at  Christ  Church  was  concluded  soon  after  his 
marriage  with  Miss  Tarbell,  in  1840  ;  and  in  1844 
he  undertook  that  work  of  his  maturer  mind  and 
heart,  the  founding  of  the  Church  of  the  Advent. 
In  the  service  of  this  church,  and  ministering  at  its 
altar,  he  died  in  1851.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this 
Memoir  to  dwell  on  the  events  of  his  official  life  ; 
and  the  few  words  which  can  be  devoted  to  it  may 
as  well  be  briefly  added  here. 

As  a  pastor,  few  have  ever  been  more  exemplary 


MEMOIR.  xxix 

and  devoted  than  Dr.  Croswell.  He  delighted  to 
find  out  Christ  in  His  poor ;  and  yet  he  was  always 
beloved  and  admired  by  many  among  the  most  re- 
fined and  affluent.  As  a  preacher  he  was  chaste 
and  fervent  in  his  style,  felicitous  in  his  illustrations 
and  expositions  of  Holy  Scripture,  and  clear  and 
evangelical  in  his  statements  of  doctrine.  If  he  had 
not  the  gifts  of  the  popular  orator,  and  if  his  ex- 
cessive modesty  often  led  him  to  conceal  rather 
than  to  display  his  feelings,  he  was  yet  (in  the 
judgment  of  a  genuine  critic,  from  whom  I  have  re- 
ceived it)  a  most  instructive  and  attractive  minister 
of  the  Word  of  God.  In  the  ritual  of  the  Church 
he  was  careful,  but  by  no  means  finical  or  fanciful ; 
and  though  his  delight  in  music  and  art  were 
indulged  where  he  thought  it  edifying,  he  ever 
prescribed  to  himself,  as  the  limit  of  what  he  prac- 
tised and  approved,  the  law  of  the  Church  and  the 
custom  of  the  Church  of  England,  in  her  parochial, 
Collegiate,  and  Cathedral  Churches.  It  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  the  rash  judgment  of  some,  who  knew 
him  only  slightly,  subjected  him  to  great  suffering 
and  persecution  in  his  latter  years,  on  frivolous 
grounds.  It  would  be  unjust  to  attribute  his  trials, 
however,  to  any  considerable  opposition  from  those 
of  his  brethren  who  are  generally  styled  "  Evan- 
gelical." Of  these,  he  ever  numbered  some  as  his 
faithful  friends,  who  loved  him  for  his  ardent  piety, 


xxx  MEMOIR. 

and  "  esteemed  him  very  highly  for  his  work's  sake." 
Among  the  extreme  and  partisan  class  of  this  school 
only  had  he  any  enemies :  and  them  he  habitually 
forgave,  as  honestly  mistaken,  regarding  them  as 
rather  offended  with  what  they  imagined  him  to 
be,  than  with  what  he  was. 

With  all  his  gentleness  and  love  of  children,  and 
condescension  to  the  poor,  and  humble  devotion  to 
the  sick  and  dying,  there  was  often  a  dignity  in  his 
manner  which  was  heroic.  I  have  seen  him  as 
playful  as  a  pet  lamb  ;  and  I  have  seen  him  as  bold 
as  a  lion.  And  such  consideration  for  others  ;  such 
chanty  ;  such  a  power  of  entering  into  other  men's 
feelings,  excusing  their  faults,  and  displaying  their 
better  parts,  I  never  knew  except  in  him.  Ambition 
and  rivalry  he  seemed  not  to  understand.  He  was 
simply  devoted  to  his  work  and  his  place;  and 
therein  he  was  full  of  love  to  God,  and  to  his  fel- 
low-men. If  he  was  not  a  saint,  and  is  not  now 
rejoicing  in  the  Paradise  of  God,  I  fear  few  will  be 
saved. 

His  poems  are  a  transcript  of  his  heart.  And  in 
what,  that  is  good  and  pure  and  holy,  do  they  not 
show  him  to  have  been  deeply  interested?  He 
was  constitutionally  averse  to  every  form  of  pseudo- 
philanthropy,  and  yet,  as  his  poetry  shows,  no 
humble  labourer,  no  poor  coloured  man,  no  sufferer 
or  sorrower,  was  too  lowly  for  him  to  regard  with 


MEMOIR.  xxxi 

love  for  Jesus's  sake.  The  very  stairs  up  which 
the  children  of  his  Sunday  school  had  to  climb 
became  as  Jacob's  ladder  to  his  eyes.  He  saw 
glory  in  everything  which  has  Christ  in  it.  Hence 
that  ardent  delight  in  everything  connected  with 
the  work  of  Missions  which  is  conspicuous  in  so 
many  of  his  poems.  The  gathering  in  of  nations 
to  the  fold  of  Jesus  is  the  perpetually  recurrent 
burden  of  his  song. 

As  he  prayed  in  one  of  his  poems  for  a  death 
like  that  of  Stephen,  it  was  granted  to  him,  and  he 
"  fell  asleep,"  like  the  first  martyr,  while  he  minis- 
tered and  prayed.  On  Sunday,  the  9th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1851,  he  baptized  an  infant  at  the  evening 
service,  and  preached  to  the  children,  on  the  "  little 
maid,"  whose  fidelity  led  to  the  cure  and  conversion 
of  Naaman.  After  this  he  joined  in  singing  the 
hymn,  and  then  kneeling  down  at  the  rails  of  the 
chancel  and  looking  towards  the  altar,  he  offered 
the  prayer ;  but  the  prayer-book  dropped  from  his 
hands,  and  he  could  not  rise  to  give  the  benediction. 
A  bloodvessel  had  broken  in  his  brain.  In  the 
white  raiment  of  his  priesthood  the  dying  man  of 
God  was  borne  to  his  vestry,  and  thence  to  his 
home,  where  soon  after  (the  commendatory  prayer 
having  been  offered  by  his  aged  friend,  Dr.  Eaton) 
he  resigned  his  soul  to  his  dear  Lord. 

"When  I  received  the  intelligence  of  this  sudden 


xxxii  MEMOIR. 

but  sublime  departure,  I  wept  as  though  it  had  been 
for  an  own  brother.  It  was  in  Paris.  I  opened  a 
letter,  and  a  cutting  from  a  newspaper  dropped  out. 
I  read  it,  and  for  the  moment,  it  clouded  the  pros- 
pect of  my  return  to  my  native  land.  A  friend 
who  observed  my  emotion  could  hardly  be  persuad- 
ed that  I  had  not  been  afflicted  in  my  own  family. 
I  knew  him  far  less  intimately  than  many  of  his 
friends,  for  I  was  by  many  years  his  junior  ;  but  on 
no  heart  had  he  written  more  deeply  than  on  mine 
the  record  of  his  pure,  unselfish,  loving  exemplifi- 
cation of  what  it  is  to  be  a  Christian.* 

To  recur  to  his  poetical  career,  we  must  go  back 
to  Hartford,  while  as  yet  the  dew  of  his  youth  was 
upon  him,  and  he  had  not  vowed  to  turn  all  his 
thoughts  and  studies  in  another  way.  It  was  often 
in  the  midst  of  the  company  (I  might  say  club)  at 
Dr.  Sumner's,  and  with  a  most  unpoetical  slate  in 
his  hand,  that  he  threw  off  his  verses,  as  it  were 
impromptu,  under  the  inspiration  of  converse  with 
his  friends,  and  of  the  subjects  on  which  they  were 
taking  sweet  counsel  together. 

*  So  much  I  must  be  permitted  to  say  of  our  friend- 
ship: I  have  felt  the  difficulty  of  making  further  mention 
of  it,  — 

"  As  shrinking  still,  lest  in  his  praise  I  should  myself  commend, 
So  high  in  merit  he,  and  I  so  very  dear  a  friend." 

Such  are  his  own  lines  on  the  death  of  Winslow. 


MEMOIR.  xxxiii 

In  general  society  he  was  a  very  different  charac- 
ter. The  poetical  temperament  is  naturally  shy 
and  reserved  ;  for  it  is  always  viewing  things  in 
lights  invisible  to  ignoble  minds,  and  it  learns 
from  early  childhood  that  it  can  expect  no  sym- 
pathy from  the  multitude,  in  feelings  and  impres- 
sions which  are  instinctive  with  it.  That  vulgar 
assurance  with  which  men  of  inferior  grades  of 
talent  often  throw  themselves  into  life  and  society, 
and  exhibit  all  that  they  have  and  are,  without 
restraint,  is  taking  with  the  masses :  they  make 
way  before  it,  and  give  to  such  men  the  key  of 
mastery  and  success.  A  man  of  Croswell's  tem- 
perament must  have  an  extraordinary  force  of 
character  to  achieve  success  at  all ;  and  when  such 
a  man  comes  forward  and  attempts  something  bold 
and  self-asserting,  it  is  with  a  sort  of  self-sacrifice, 
of  which  the  common  mind  has  no  idea.  The 
young  poet  was  often  accused  of  reserve ;  and,  of 
course,  this  was  imputed  to  pride,  and  to  other 
motives,  of  which  he  was  equally  unconscious  and 
incapable,  and  his  feelings  on  one  occasion  found 
vent  in  a  few  apologetic  lines,  which  he  tacked  on 
to  the  well-known  sonnet  of  Sidney :  — 

"  Because  I  oft,  in  dark,  abstracted  guise, 

Seem  most  alone  in  greatest  company,"  etc. 

His  own  lines  are  as  follows :  — 
c 


xxxiv  MEMOIR. 

1  But  one  worse  weakness  I  must  needs  confess,  — 
That  deep  embarrassment  which  doth,  ala= ! 
Both  mental  powers  and  bodily  oppress: 
Hence  rises  my  reserve,  and  not  from  willingness." 

He  adds,  in  a  playful  note :  "  For  the  first  ten  lines 
of  this  exculpatory  sonnet,  I  am  indebted  to  that 
paragon  of  euphuists,  worthy  of  all  titles,  both  of 
learning  and  chivalry,  Sir  Philip  Sidney  ;  for  the 
remainder  he  is  not  responsible,  nor  for  any  viola- 
tion of  the  first  canon  of  Horace,  de  arte  poetica, 
which  may  be  involved  in  them." 

In  arranging  his  sonnets,  the  reader  will  find 
that  I  have  given  them  the  form  of  an  apple,  with 
the  seeds  in  the  centre.  I  mean  that  I  have  re- 
duced them  to  something  like  unity  and  rotundity, 
and  that  I  have  avoided  the  exhibition  of  their 
newspaper  form.  They  are  strung  together,  as  it 
were,  on  the  thread  of  the  Christian  year,  begin- 
ning with  the  sonnet  on  "  Winter,"  which  coincides 
with  the  season  of  Advent.  The  fine  sonnet,  "  On 
bediming  the  Watchman,"  is  nevertheless  the  first 
in  order  of  time  and  of  argument,  if  I  may  so 
speak  ;  and  nobody,  in  reading  it,  can  fail  to  ob- 
serve with  what  a  high  sense  of  doing  a  work  for 
God  the  poet  entered  upon  that  undertaking.  It 
is  not  wonderful,  considering  this  devout  start,  that 
his  short  labours  in  it  were  crowned  with  such  re- 
markable success.     "  Could  it  have  been  better, 


MEMOIR.  xxxv 

or  different,"  says  Bishop  Doane,  "  if  he  had  been 
premonished  of  his  course  through  life,  or  if  he  had 
written  it  on  the  day  on  which  his  life  was  closed  ?  " 

What  I  have  likened  to  the  seeds  of  the  work  is 
that  triplet  of  sonnets  in  which  there  is  made  a 
transition  from  those  appropriate  to  the  Christian 
seasons,  to  others  of  a  more  general  sort.  "  The 
Prayer"  is  introduced  at  the  beginning  of  this 
second  part,  and  the  first  is  concluded  by  "  The 
Valedictory."  The  "  Palinode "  is  the  link  that 
unites  the  two ;  and  this  arrangement  has  enabled 
me  to  conclude  the  whole  with  that  noble  sonnet, 
in  which  the  poet's  own  early  but  sublime  death 
seems  to  be  foreshadowed. 

But  the  history  of  the  "  Palinode  "  is  worthy  of 
especial  mention.  In  the  valedictory  sonnet  pub- 
lished in  the  "  Watchman,"  he  prematurely  re- 
nounced the  poetical  vocation,  and  blamed  himself 
for  having  ventured  to  employ  the  name  of 
"  Asaph "  in  the  production  of  uninspired  com- 
positions. This  called  forth  from  his  friend  Mrs. 
Sigourney  the  following  remonstrance  :  — 

TO  ASAPH. 

OCCASIONED  BY  HIS   VALEDICTORY   SONNET. 

0,  not  farewell,  deft  ruler  of  the  lyre ; 

Sweet  singer  of  our  Israel,  not  farewell; 
Thou,  early  called  amid  the  temple  choir, 

The  glad,  high  praises  of  our  God  to  swell ; 


xxxvi  MEMOIR. 

Levite  and  priest,  who  Zion's  anthem  led, 

Had  trembled  if  their  solemn  string  were  mute, 
If  the  soul's  pulse  of  melody  were  dead, 

Or  hushed  the  breathings  of  Jehovah's  lute: 
•  YVouldst  thou  forego  the  baptism  of  the  skies  ? 

Down  at  the  altar's  foot  thy  censer  cast? 
Hide  in  the  earth  a  gift  that  seraphs  prize, 

Yet  faithful  hope  to  be  pronounced  at  last? 
Minstrel,  return !     Resume  the  hallowed  strain ; 
Repent  thee  of  thy  sin,  and  woo  Heaven's  harp  again. 

In  a  succeeding  sonnet,  lie  gallantly  withdraws 
from  any  contest  with  such  an  authority,  and 
returns  to  his  poetical  tasks  without  gainsaying, 
prefixing,  from  a  popular  poet,  the  lines:  — 

"  Lady,  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obeyed 
Are  one." 

If  this  was  a  genuine  retreat  and  recall,  the 
Church  is  not  a  little  indebted  to  her  who  so 
happily  persuaded  him  not  to  neglect  the  gift  that 
was  in  him.  And  that  it  was  genuine  I  have  no 
doubt  at  all.  Never  did  any  one  more  scrupulous- 
ly avoid  all  unreality  and  affectation,  though,  in- 
deed, his  nature  enabled  him  to  do  so  without 
effort.  I  have  little  doubt  that  the  applause  which 
he  received  pained  him,  in  view  of  his  own  estima- 
tion of  his  writings.  He  had  an  ideal  before  him, 
to  which  his  artless  rhymes  did  little  justice,  and 
the  self-dispraise  which  was  always  the  echo  of  the 


MEMOIR.  xxxv  ii 

praise  of  others  disgusted  him  with  the  attempt. 
Nothing  but  the  conviction  that  he  -was  really 
doing  good  and  giving  enjoyment  could  stimulate 
him  to  fresh  efforts,  and  this  conviction  was  wrought 
by  those  earnest  remonstrances  of  which  Mrs.  Sig- 
ourney's  was  but  the  exponent.  In  preparing 
these  sonnets  and  the  other  poems  of  Dr.  Croswell 
for  the  press,  I  have  forborne  to  do  the  part  of  an 
editor,  in  correcting  them,  except  only  in  those 
extreme  cases  where  momentary  negligence  has 
allowed  them  to  appear  with  obvious  grammatical 
blemishes,  or  errors  equivalent.  In  these  rare  in- 
stances I  have  gently  touched  the  work,  from  a 
conviction  that,  without  such  emendations,  they 
would  in  no  wise  have  been  permitted  to  appear, 
in  a  permanent  volume,  by  the  poet  himself.  The 
sonnets  only  seem  to  have  been  wrought  up  to  a 
high  finish,  and  many  of  these  are  exquisite  mosaics, 
which  appear  to  me  incapable  of  being  improved. 

But  let  nobody  censure  Dr.  Croswell  for  any  of 
the  defects  of  these  poems,  without  remembering 
that  a  sort  of  friendly  violence  has  been  practised 
upon  him  in  making  this  collection.  He  was  him- 
self aware  of  his  singular  disposition  to  quote  from 
others  in  his  own  verse,  and  sometimes  uncon- 
sciously to  give  a  new  turn  of  thought  to  familiar 
forms  of  expression  borrowed  from  the  old  poets. 
He  has  been  known  to  say,  UI  can  hardly  tell 


xxxviii  MEMOIR. 

whether  this  is  my  own,  or  whether  I  have  merely 
versified  what  has  been  ringing  in  my  head  as  the 
echo  of  somebody  else's  voice."  The  nervous  tem- 
perament of  the  poet  is  singularly  predisposed  to 
produce  syncope,  and  I  have  often  seen  Croswell 
in  such  moods  as  Walton  ascribes  to  Sir  Henry 
Wotton,  when  "  a  holy  lethargy  did  surprise  his 
memory."  In  new  scenes  or  excitements  he  was 
subject  to  these  reveries,  in  which  the  very  effort 
to  collect  himself  bred  a  momentary  confusion,  and 
robbed  him  of  what  he  best  understood.  His  stern 
sense  of  duty,  however,  and  his  love  of  truthful- 
ness, enabled  him  to  triumph  over  this  infirmity  in 
all  matters  of  business ;  and  it  is  a  proof  of  his 
strength  of  mind,  that,  natural  as  it  would  have 
been  to  him  to  yield  himself  to  literary  self-indul- 
gence and  all  the  waywardness  of  genius,  he  yet. 
overcame  it  by  stern  principle,  and  never  gave 
his  friends  the  least  reason  to  lament  any  indiffer- 
ence to  effort,  save  only  in  this  matter  of  verse- 
making.  It  will  without  a  doubt  be  observed,  that 
when  he  borrows  his  thoughts  or  expressions,  he 
almost  always  sets  the  gem  anew,  or  gives  it  a 
new  and  felicitous  development :  — 

"  Exiit  ad  cortum  rarais  felicibus  arbos, 
Miraturque  novas  frondes  et  non  sua  poma." 

It  is  in  the  light,  ballad  verse  that  what  is  spe- 
cially his   own   comes   out   most  vividly.     In    the 


MEMOIR.  xxxix 

verses  on  "  The  Ordinal "  we  have  one  of  the  most 
striking  pictures  that  words  can  give  of  the  scene 
at  an  ordination  of  deacons ;  but  it  is  also  full  of  the 
man,  —  of  William  Croswell,  in  his  young,  fervent, 
simple-hearted  piety,  devoting  himself  to  Christ, 
and  binding  his  heart  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  horns  of 
the  altar.  So,  in  the  verses  on  "  Christmas,"  the 
fragrancy  of  the  hemlock,  with  which  Trinity 
Church  in  New  Haven  is  usually  decorated,  and 
the  precise  effect  of  the  wintry  light  through  the 
frosted  panes  and  the  green  foliage,  are  translated 
into  the  verse  with  great  descriptive  power ;  yet 
the  deep  tone  of  feeling  which  these  beauties  of 
the  holy  place  ought  to  produce  comes  out  also  as 
the  real  matter  of  the  poet's  delight,  and  we  have 
not  only  what  should  be  their  effect,  but  just  what 
was  their  effect,  in  his  pious  soul.  A  similar  reality 
is  to  be  observed  in  a  very  different  poem  (in  some 
respects  his  best  production), — that  on  "  The  Syna- 
gogue." No  one  who  has  ever  been  present  at 
the  Jewish  worship  can  fail  to  remark  how  stereo- 
scopic is  the  view  given,  in  Croswell's  verses,  of 
the  instructive  scene:  — 

"  It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve ;  the  solitary  light 

Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day,  a  lustro  nothing 
bright ; 

On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance  it  falls  with  sad- 
dening tinge, 

And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's  phylacteries  and  fringe." 


xl  MEMOIR. 

How  truly  the  touch  of  genius  is  here  !  It  is  the 
very  colouring  and  chiar'oscuro  of  Rembrandt ;  and 
yet  we  have  something  more  in  the  felicity  of 
expression,  which  at  once  translates  into  Hebrew, 
as  it  were,  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  the 
moment.  It  reproduces  the  Oriental  climate,  and 
for  a  time  the  homely  Jew  of  St.  Giles'  is  "  the 
Pharisee,"  and  the  mere  scarf  to  which  his  gorgeous 
raiment  has  dwindled  down  is  invested  with  the 
beauty  and  propriety  of  full  Mosaic  attire.  The 
opening  of  the  Ark,  or  receptacle  of  the  Law; 
the  display  of  the  holy  books  in  their  decorated 
coverings ;  and  then  the  reading  of  "  the  backward 
letters  "  by  the  minister,  —  how  perfectly  it  is  pre- 
sented in  the  spirit  of  the  Jew  himself !  Yet  Cros- 
well  could  not  be  a  Jew  even  in  poetic  dream. 
There  are  other  poets  who  might  have  written 
these  verses  so  far ;  but  the  rest  is  our  poet,  just 
as  he  was,  looking  on,  with  a  yearning  heart,  and 
praying  for  the  consolation  of  Israel :  — 

"  And  fervently  that  hour  I  prayed,  that,  from  the  mighty 

scroll, 
Its  light  in  burning  characters  might  break  on  every  soul ; 
That  on  their  hardened  hearts   the  veil    might  be  no 

longer  dark, 
But  be  forever  rent  in  twain,  like  that  before  the  Ark." 

Observe,  also,  in  the  concluding  stanza,  how  the 
spirit  of  the    Gospel   triumphs   over   the  Jew   in 


MEMOIR.  xii 

fervent  charity  only,  and  exults  in  the  prospect 
of  his  conversion  !  The  theological  critic  only  will 
be  able  to  perceive  the  great  power  which  resides 
in  the  combinations  of  the  last  two  lines,  —  Messiah 
with  Jesus  Christ,  but  above  all,  Jehovah  with 
the  Nazarene  !  The  "  nameless  name  "  of  Jehovah 
—  a  word  so  sacred  that  the  Jew  would  not  speak 
it  —  coupled  with  that  of  "  the  Nazarene,"  in 
which  he  concentrated  all  that  he  most  hated,  de- 
spised, and  loathed ! 

"  For  yet  the  tenfold  film  shall  fall,  0  Judah !  from  thy 

sight, 
And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read  thy  testimonies  right, 
When  thou  with  all  Messiah's  signs,  in  Christ  distinctly 

seen, 
Shalt,  by  Jehovah's  nameless  name,  invoke  the  Nazarene." 

He  once  said  to  me,  when  I  asked  him  where  he 
got  that  peculiar  ballad  tune  of  his,  which  runs 
one  line  into  another  with  only  the  slightest  pause 
on  the  rhyme :  "  O,  that 's  a  mere  echo  of  Tom 
Moore  ;  I  suspect  it  came  from,  — 

'  The  bird  let  loose  in  Eastern  skies,' 
or  some  such  elevated  ditty,"  at  which  he  pleasant- 
ly smiled.  He  never  would  admit  that  he  had 
much  poetry  in  him.  "  At  any  rate,"  said  he,  -  I 
never  yet  could  find  that  vein  of  unwritten  poetry 
of  which  the  good  Bishop  of  New  Jersey  accuses 
me."    Yet  he  owned  to  me,  on  one  occasion  (when 


xlii  MEMOIR. 

we  were  reading  some  really  good  poetry  he  had 
just  received  in  an  English  publication),  that  he 
had  himself  felt  what  I  could  not  but  exclaim,  as  I 
read  it :  "  Why,  Croswell,  this  man  has  got  not  only 
your  thoughts,  but  your  own  special  harmony  of 
words  and  jingle  of  rhymes ! "  He  never  said  much 
on  the  subject ;  but  he  once  confessed  to  me  how 
much  he  longed  to  write  some  poems  for  children, 
of  which  he  felt  himself  capable.  He  liked  best 
what  he  had  written  with  least  trouble,  and  he 
had  a  fondness  for  the  brevity  and  abruptness  of 
some  of  his  verses.  When  on  a  journey  with  him, 
I  reminded  him  of  his  "  Traveller's  Hymn,"  which 
I  had  seen  but  could  not  remember ;  and  he  told 
me,  if  I  recollect  aright,  that  it  was  a  sort  of  Im- 
promptu, which  bubbled  up  when  he  was  going 
with  Dr.  Wainwright  from  Boston  to  New  York, 
to  attend  the  General  Convention.  Some  one  had 
said,  "  there  should  be  more  of  it,"  which  amused 
him,  for  he  thought  long  and  wordy  talk  was  the 
plague  of  the  nation.  "  A  fellow  once  called  on 
me,"  he  added,  "  to  get  the  rest  of  two  little  poems, 
of  which  he  would  not  believe  a  few  verses  could 
be  all,  for  he  seemed  never  to  have  seen  a  song 
of  only  two  stanzas."  These  poems  which  were 
too  short  to  be  satisfactory  were  those  on  "  St. 
Stephen w  and  "  Christmas."  Their  brevity  was 
their   merit,   in    Croswell's    judgment.     He   often 


MEMOIR.  xliii 

laughed  good-humouredly  at  one  who  persisted  in 
manufacturing  poetry  by  the  yard. 

But  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  anticipate  the 
intelligent  reader  in  his  own  comments  on  these 
works.  I  would  only  add,  that  where  Dr.  Croswell 
is  occasionally  satirical,  it  is  simply  playfulness  indulg- 
ing itself  in  truthfulness ;  it  is  never  bitterness  nor 
envy,  nor  hatred  nor  malice.  The  exquisite  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  by  which  he  was  distinguished,  and 
his  delicate  sense  of  the  absurdity  of  many  things 
in  which  the  half-educated  mind  and  heart  find 
contentment,  if  not  delight,  were  ever  prompting 
him  to  expressions  of  keenest  wit  and  sarcasm. 
But  it  was  the  mere  sarcasm  of  taste  and  feeling ; 
never  that  of  ill-will.  A  heart  more  universally 
warmed  towards  his  kind,  in  every  station  and 
degree,  and  more  capable  of  overlooking  every- 
thing in  a  human  being,  for  Christ's  sake,  I  have 
never  found. 

Had  Dr.  Croswell,  instead  of  devoting  his  life 
to  the  service  of  souls,  given  all  his  thought  to 
the  development  of  his  poetical  gifts,  no  competent 
judge  who  knew  him  can  doubt  that  he  would 
have  left  to  his  country,  if  not  a  great,  yet  a 
famous  and  an  enduring  name.  As  it  is,  he  de- 
serves to  be  remembered,  without  reference  to  other 
claims,  for  his  poetry  alone,  and  by  it ;  for  if  it  be 
not  the  critic's  poetry,  it  is  yet  the  Christian's,  and 


xliv  MEMOIR. 

in  the  holy  keeping  of  the  Faithful  it  will  be  pre- 
served without  effort,  for  it  will  live  in  many  hearts. 
He  was  a  poet  by  every  token  that  belongs  to 
the  character  of  one  inspired  by  the  Muse.  No 
unhealthy,  raving,  maniacal  utterer  of  nonsense 
tagged  with  rhyme,  only  occasionally  rising  into  a 
higher  than  his  natural  elevation  of  sentiment,  and 
mingling  his  unwisdom  with  words  of  feeling  and 
of  truth,  —  no  such  creature  of  imitation  and  affec- 
tation was  he !  His  genius  was  real,  because  it 
was  healthful,  unstudied,  unlaboured,  often  put 
away  by  effort,  but  never  put  on.  It  was  said,  with 
the  greatest  truthfulness,  by  the  friend  who  best 
knew  him,  that  "  his  poetry  was  practical.  It  was 
the  way-flower  of  his  daily  life,  —  its  violet,  its 
cowslip,  its  pansy.  It  sprang  up  where  he  walked. 
You  could  not  get  a  letter  from  him,  —  though  made 
up  of  the  details  of  business,  or  the  household 
trifles  of  his  hearth,  —  that  some  sweet  thought,  as 
natural  as  it  was  beautiful,  would  not  bubble  up 
above  the  surface  with  prismatic  hues."  Such 
springs  of  thought  and  genuine  feeling  were  ever 
welling  forth  in  his  talk ;  though,  when  he  became 
conscious  of  it,  or  observed  that  he  was  exciting 
surprise  and  pleasure,  he  would  often  blush  and 
check  himself.  This  was  the  "  unwritten  poetry  " 
which  Bishop  Doane  ascribed  to  him.  Had  he 
only  brought  forth  this  ore,  refined  and  coined  it, 
how  rich  his  poetical  works  would  have  been  ! 


MEMOIR.  xlv 

But  he  cared  not  for  the  name  or  fame  of  a  poet, 
and  hence  he  elaborated  nothing.  All  that  he  has 
left  us  is  only  to  be  regarded  as  virtually  im- 
provisation. What  he  would  have  said,  in  conver- 
sation occasionally  took  rhyme  and  measure,  and 
occasionally  he  would  write  it  down.  In  all  his 
poetry  we  have  the  photograph  of  some  genuine 
emotion,  or  some  real  incident,  which  happened  to 
be  caught  while  it  was  shaping  itself  into  the  mel- 
ody which  was  its  native  form  in  the  mind  of  the 
poet.  If  a  critic  should  say  "we  have  nothing  fin- 
ished in  these  poems,"  it  would  be  not  altogether 
untrue.  It  is  because  they  were  never  intended  to 
be  poems,  —  they  are  the  author's  thoughts  as  they 
were  conceived.  He  thought  in  rhythmical  senten- 
ces :  and  when  he  had  set  down  such  thoughts,  there 
he  left  them.  An  artist  would  have  worked  them 
up  into  a  marketable  shape ;  but  though  Croswell 
was  a  poet,  the  "  art  of  poetry  "  was  not  his  trade. 

The  reason  of  this  was  that  he  found  in  his  sa- 
cred calling  that  which  satisfied  every  feeling  and 
absorbed  all  his  thoughts  and  energies.  The  living 
poetry  of  the  Church's  sublime  system,  —  its  in 
spired  doctrines,  its  orderly  structure,  its  majestic 
Liturgy  and  Ritual,  the  music  of  its  hymns  and  an- 
thems, the  flowers  of  its  festivals ;  yea,  and  tfce 
homely  attractiveness  of  its  charities ;  its  pathway 
among  the  poor,  the  sorrowing,  the  sick  and  the 


xlvi  MEMOIR. 

dying  ;  its  holy  ministries  to  the  dead,  —  these  were 
the  things  in  which  his  life  found  satisfaction  with- 
out satiety.  He  loved  alike  the  simplicity  and  the 
beauty  of  the  Anglican  Church.  He  believed  it  to 
be  the  undiluted  native  Christianity  of  apostles  and 
martyrs ;  he  saw  in  it  the  New  Testament  practi- 
cally carried  out.  Its  naked  charms  were  the  object 
of  his  unswerving  love ;  he  wished  neither  more  nor 
less  than  what  he  regarded  as  hers.  Hence,  it  was 
beautiful  to  see  with  what  unquestioning  sincerity 
he  took  every  intimation  of  the  rubric  as  meaning 
precisely  what  it  said,  and  not  to  be  explained 
away.  His  Mother's  voice  was  to  him  the  best 
interpreter  of  his  Father's  will.  That  he  was 
fulfilling  his  priesthood  was  consolation  enough, 
while  he  spent  the  torrid  summer  months  in  Bos- 
ton, and  went  to  and  fro  among  the  poor,  almost  all 
others  having  left  the  city.  He  was  remonstrated 
with  for  his  self-sacrificing  labours.  "  Yes  !  "  he  an- 
swered, "  but  the  poor  need  me,  and  when  I  find 
myself  left  in  Boston,  to  minister  to  the  sick,  and 
bury  the  dead,  I  love  to  feel  that  I  can  represent 
the  pastoral  care  of  the  Church  among  those  who 
are  estranged  from  her ;  and  I  assure  you,  it  is  a 
rich  reward  to  walk  at  the  head  of  the  meanest 
funeral  in  the  garments  of  her  ministry." 

The  poems  of  such  a  man  are  not  poems,  then,  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.     They  are  not  the 


MEMOIR.  xlvii 

productions  of  literary  canons,  and  of  one  zealous  to 
deserve  well  of  critics.  In  the  estimation  of  such  as 
would  judge  them  on  purely  critical  rules,  however, 
they  could  not  fail  of  a  much  higher  rank  than  has 
been  often  attained  by  religious  poetry,  in  America. 
There  is  very  little  resemblance  to  George  Her- 
bert in  the  structure  of  CroswelTs  poems.  In  fact, 
considering  the  great  similarity  between  the  two 
characters,  and  the  matter  of  their  thoughts  and  af- 
fections, the  two  are  as  unlike  in  their  poetry  as  the 
seventeenth  century  is  unlike  the  nineteenth,  or  as 
England  is  unlike  New  England.  And  yet,  in 
what  Coleridge  says  of  the  one,  I  would  speak  of 
the  other,  only  excepting  the  mention  of  classical 
tastes,  which  are  not  so  requisite  for  the  appreciation 
of  Croswell.  "  He  is  a  true  poet,  but  a  poet  sui 
generis ,"%ays  Coleridge,  "  the  merits  of  whose  poems 
will  never  be  felt  without  a  sympathy  with  the 
mind  and  character  of  the  man.  To  appreciate 
him,  it  is  not  enough  that  the  reader  possesses  a 
cultivated  judgment,  classical  taste,  or  even  poetic 
sensibility,  unless  he  be  likewise  a  Christian,  and 
both  a  zealous  and  an  orthodox,  both  a  devout  and 
a  devotional  Christian.  But  even  this  will  not  quite 
suffice.  He  must  be  an  affectionate  and  dutiful 
child  of  the  Church,  and  (from  habit,  conviction, 
and  a  constitutional  predisposition  to  ceremonious- 
ness,  in  piety  as  in  manners)  find  her  forms  and  or- 


xlviii  MEMOIR. 

dinances  aids  of  religion,  not  sources  of  formality ; 
for  religion  is  the  element  in  which  he  lives,  and 
the  region  in  which  he  moves."  Coleridge  adds  a 
very  just  remark,  which  it  would  be  well  for  Cros- 
well's  readers  to  bear  in  mind.  He  says  that  what 
the  Puritans  regarded  as  papistic  in  the  Church- 
men of  the  Stuart  period,  was  rather  patristic. 
Their  habits  of  mind  were  bred  of  that  primitive 
apostolicity,  which,  though  wholly  unlike  the  relig- 
ion of  the  Puritans,  resembles  Popery  only  as  gold 
is  like  brass,  or  like  touchwood  that  is  covered  with 
tinsel. 

Horace  expected  to  be  remembered  so  long  as 
the  rites  of  his  religion  should  be  perpetuated  on 
the  Capitol.  I  believe  these  poems  of  my  venerated 
friend  will  survive  while  a  single  priest  ministers,  in 
white  raiment,  at  the  altars  of  the  Church,  and  so 
long  as  her  Faithful  wait  on  the  solemn  services 
of  the  Christian  Year,  from  Advent  to  Advent.  If 
ever  those  sublime  offices  shall  come  to  an  end  in  our 
land,  it  would  be  a  glorious  thing  to  let  one's  memo- 
rial  perish  with  them ;  but  since  there  is  nothing  so 
imperishable  as  the  Church  of  the  Living  God,  I 
believe  that,  as  he  was  content  to  consecrate  his 
genius  to  her  service,  his  writings  will  partake  of  her 
immortality. 

A.  C.  C. 
Baltimore,  1860. 


SONNETS 


WINTER. 

The  moon  and  stars  light  up  their  wintry  fire ; 

And,  kindling  with  a  lustre  more  intense, 

As  if  to  quell  the  frosty  influence 
Which  wraps  the  world  in  its  unstained  attire, 
They  draw  our  spirits  heavenward  to  admire. 

Nor  them  alone.     For  in  the  marbled  sky 

Ten  thousand  little  snow-white  cloudlets  lie, 
In  fleecy  clusters  ranged  from  east  to  west, 

Which  meet  the  toil-worn  swain's  exalted  eye, 
As  wljen  he  sees  upon  the  upland's  breast 
His  own  unspotted  flock  at  silent  rest, 

With  all  their  new-born  mountain  lambkins  by, 
And  to  his  meditative  mind  recall 
The  mighty  Shepherd  that  o'erlooks  them  all. 

3 


•  a^S^S&S&SC?! 


II. 

CHRISTMAS. 

O,  haste  the  rites  of  that  auspicious  day, 

When  white-robed  altars,  wreathed  in  living  green, 

Adorn  the  temples?  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 
The  priest  and  people  emulously  pay 

Glad  homage,  with  the  festal  chants  between ; 
And,  aisles  and  arches  echoing  back  the  strain, 

The  sylvan  tapestry  around  is  stirred  ; 

And  voices  sweeter  than  the  song  of  bird 
Are  resonant  within  the  leafy  fane. 

If,  in  the  fadeless  foliage  gathered  there, 
Pale  Nature  has  so  bright  an  offering, 

Where  all  beside  is  withered,  waste,  and  bare, 
What  lively  tribute  should  our  spirits  bring 

To  beautify,  O  Lord,  thy  holy  place  of  prayer  ? 

a  Hillhouse's  Vision  of  Judgment. 
4 


jfed      ®P>     ®^     @P>     <g$§>      ^^ 


III. 

SAINT  JOHN  THE   EVANGELIST. 

"  The  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved." 

Gospel  for  the  Day. 

O  highly  favoured,  unto  whom  't  was  given 
To  lay  thy  hand  upon  the  golden  keys 
That  ope  th'  empyrean  mysteries, 

And  all  the  bright  apocalypse  of  heaven  ! 

Sweet  solace  of  thy  sorrowing  soul,  when  driven 
Into  its  island  banishment  alone. 

Thy  rapturous  spirit  has  been  long  at  rest, 
Partaker  of  the  glories  then  foreshown, 
And  knowing  even  as  thv  thoughts  were  known. 

O  JO 

And  if  to  bide  His  baptism  be  the  test, 
And  drink  the  cup  peculiarly  His  own, 

Then  thou  hast  gained  thy  mother's  fond  request, 
And,  stationed  near  the  everlasting  throne, 

Shalt  lean  once  more  upon  thy  Saviour's  breast. 

5 


IV. 


THE   SEVEN  CHURCHES. 


How  doth  each  city  solitary  sit 

That  once  was  full  of  people  !     Round  his  path 
The  Christian  pilgrim  finds  remaining  yet 

The  fearful  records  of  accomplished  wrath. 

The  glory  of  God's  house  departed  hath  ; 
The  golden  candlestick  cannot  emit 

One  glimmering  ray,  however  faint  and  dim  ; 

There  is  no  consecrated  oil  to  trim 
Th'  extinguished  flame  which  once  the  Spirit  lit 

Alas !  that  he  who  hath  an  ear  to  hear 
The  teaching  of  that  Spirit,  can  forget 
These  dread  fulfilments  of  prophetic  writ, 

Nor  lay  them  to  his  stricken  heart,  in  fear 
Lest  he  thus  hear,  and  thus  abandon  it. 


V. 


EPIPHANY. 


Joy  to  thy  savage  realms,  O  Africa  ! 
A  sign  is  on  thee  that  the  great  I  AM 
Shall  work  new  wonders  in  the  land  of  Ham  ; 

And  while  he  tarries  for  the  glorious  day 
To  bring  again  his  people,  there  shall  be 
A  remnant  left,  from  Cushan  to  the  sea. 

And  though  the  Ethiop  cannot  change  his  skin, 
Or  bleach  the  outward  stain,  he  yet  shall  roll 
The  darkness  off  that  overshades  the  soul, 

And  wash  away  the  deeper  dyes  of  sin. 
Princes,  submissive  to  the  Gospel  sway, 

Shall  come  from  Egypt ;  and  the  Morian's  land 

In  holy  transport  stretch  to  God  its  hand : 
Joy  to  thy  savage  realms,  O  Africa  ! 


kk^t^i^i^i^C&tf^^mg^: 


VI. 


THE   FAR  WEST. 


Lsr  the  recesses  of  the  western  wood, 

Into  its  very  heart,  —  by  all  forgot 

Save  Him  who  made  me,  —  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  bear  the  burden  of  its  solitude  ; 

And  in  some  wild  and  unfrequented  spot, 
Sharing  the  Indian  hunter's  cabin  rude, 

To  lead,  in  glad  return,  a  willing  guide, 

His  humbled  spirit  to  the  Crucified ; 
And  in  the  solemn  twilight,  hushed  and  dim, 

The  forest  people  often  gathering, 

To  make  the  green  and  pillared  arches  ring, 
Not  with  the  war-song,  but  the  holy  hymn. 

So  might  I  live,  and  leave  no  other  trace 

Where  I  had  made  my  earthly  dwelling-place. 


VII 


CRETE. 


Ancient  of  years,  the  hundred-citied  Isle  ! 

Still  art  thou  left  a  goodly  sight  to  see  ; 

To  breathe  thine  air  is  still  a  luxury, 
And  man  alone,  of  all  around,  is  vile,  — 

Viler  than  e'en  thy  first-born  Caphtorim.8 
When  shalt  thou  be  once  more  as  thou  hast  been  ? 

When  shall  thy  navied  strength  resistless  swim, 
And  make  thee,  Britain-like,  an  ocean  queen  ? 
When,  rising  from  the  dust,  shalt  thou  be  seen 

A  nursing  mother  to  the  Church  again, 
And  when,  alas  !  another  Titus  come 

To  rear  the  fallen  Cross,  nor  reordain 

In  all  thy  cities  priestly  men  in  vain, 
But  leave  thy  name  a  praise  in  Christendom  ? 

a  Amos  ix.  7. 
9 


VIII. 

LENT. 

The  holy  Lenten  time  is  now  far  spent ; 

And  from  the  muffled  altars,  everywhere, 

Full  many  a  warning  voice  has  bid  prepare 
The  Lord's  highway,  and  cried  aloud,  Repent ! 
And  be  your  hearts,  and  not  your  garments,  rent ; 

And  turn  unto  the  Lord  your  God  with  prayer. 
Not,  as  aforetime,  are  the  contrite  sent 

To  sackcloth,  ashes,  and  the  shirt  of  hair, 

Or  knotted  thong  ;  but  consciences  laid  bare, 
And  lowly  minds,  and  knees  in  secret  bent, 
And  fasts  in  spirit,  mark  the  penitent. 

Let  not  the  broken-hearted,  then,  despair  ; 
The  sighs  of  those  who  worthily  lament 

Their  sins,  reach  Heaven,  and  are  accepted  there. 
10 


IX 


CHRIST  BEARING  THE   CROSS. 


SUGGESTED  BY  A  PAINTING. 


If  thou  wouldst  fortify  thy  young  belief, 
Christian  disciple,  read  with  anxious  look 
The  pictured  comment  on  the  holy  book, 

That  tells  the  sufferings  of  thy  chosen  Chief, 

Nor  let  the  look  be  single,  neither  brief: 

That  tortured  eye,  and  countenance  so  meek, 
So  mild,  and  yet  majestical,  bespeak 

The  Man  of  Sorrows,  intimate  with  grief. 
From  Him  learn  how  divinity  could  lend 

A  dignity  to  suffering,  nor  disdain 

Art's  utmost  effort  in  one  face  to  blend 

Immortal  fortitude  with  mortal  pain ; 

And  let  not  faith  despise  the  aid  of  sense, 
Nor  spurn  the  pencil's  mute  omnipotence. 


X. 

TO   THE   HEPATICA  TRILOBA, 

FOUNT)  IN   MARCH. 

"Why  liftest  thou,  so  premature,  thy  head 

Amid  the  withered  waste,  pale  flower?    Say,  why 

Dost  thou,  alone  and  desolate,  defy 
The  year,  yet  unconfirmed,  while  there  is  shed 
No  wholesome  dew  upon  thy  leaf-strewn  bed, 

All  choked  and  matted;  but  the  frost-wind's  sigh 

Is  heard,  at  eve,  thy  chill  slope  rustling  by  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot  thy  time,  or  dost  thou  spread 

Thy  sweet  leaves  to  the  air,  and  smiling  wave 
'Mid  blasted  verdure,  like  the  garland  shed 

By  fond  affection  o'er  the  early  grave, 
To  breathe  its  bloom  around  the  youthful  dead  ? 

Short  be  their  sleep  in  dust  as  thine,  fail*  flower ! 

So  wake  to  life  and  joy  when  past  their  wintry  hour ! 

12 


XI 


EASTER. 


Oxce  more  thou  comest,  O  delicious  Spring  ! 
And  as  thy  light  and  gentle  footsteps  tread 
Among  earth's  glories,  desolate  and  dead, 

Breathest  revival  over  everything. 

Thy  genial  spirit  is  abroad  to  bring 

The  cold  and  faded  into  life  and  bloom, 
Emblem  of  that  -which  shall  unlock  the  tomb, 

And  take  away  the  fell  destroyer's  sting. 

Therefore  thou  hast  the  warmer  welcoming  : 
For  Nature  speaks  not  of  herself  alone, 
But  in  her  resurrection  tells  our  own. 

As  from  its  grave  comes  forth  the  buried  grain, 
So  man's  frail  body,  in  corruption  sown, 

In  incorruption  shall  be  raised  again. 

13 


U  ,i  i  *  H  4  i  H  H  U  i  A  i  U  a 


2>YYTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYf 


XII. 

CsFANT  BAPTISM. 

How  heavenly  an  inheritance  is  thine, 

Sweet  babe  !  whom  yon  baptismal  group  present, 

Now  that  the  consecrating  element 
Hath  bathed  thy  forehead,  and  the  crucial  sign 
Is  as  a  frontlet  bound  between  the  eyne, 

In  token  that  hereafter  thou  shalt  be 
A  faithful  soldier  in  the  cause  divine. 

And,  in  thy  triple  warfare,  manfully 
Beneath  the  banner  of  the  Cross  shalt  fight 
If  Christ  himself  so  tenderly  invite 

The  little  children  to  his  heavenly  fold, 
They  mock  his  ordinance,  and  do  despite 

Unto  his  high  behest,  who  dare  withhold 
Or  yet  delay  the  pure,  regenerating  rite. 

14 


r^  _^i_   ^ <-^  ^-^  ^©'  CJ^~TV-  ~!*v  >-/*v~  >/v  ■/%  £5*^ 


XIII. 

CONFIRMATION. 

The  white-stoled  Bishop  stood  amid  the  crowd, 
Novitiates  all,  who,  tutored  to  revere 
The  mitre's  holy  offices,  drew  near, 

And,  after  sins  renounced  and  pledges  vowed, 
Pale  with  emotion  and  religious  fear, 

In  meek  subjection,  round  the  chancel,  bowed 
To  hallowed  hands,  that  o'er  them,  one  by  one, 
Fell  with  a  Prelate's  thrilling  benison. 

Thou,  who  canst  make  the  loadstone's  touch  impart 
An  active  virtue  to  the  tempered  steel, 
O,  let  Thy  hand  rest  on  them,  till  they  feel 

A  new-born  impulse  stirring  in  the  heart, 
And,  swinging  from  surrounding  objects  free, 
Point  with  a  tremulous  confidence  to  Thee. 

15 


XIV. 

THE  KNOT. 

Holy  and  happy  be  the  wedded  pair, 

Who,  typifying  here  the  solemn  rite 

To  which  the  Bridegroom  and  His  Church  invite 
The  good  in  heaven  hereafter,  hope  to  share 
The  glories  of  His  great  espousal  there. 

They,  when  He  cometh  at  the  dead  of  night 
In  triumph  with  the  Spirit  and  the  Bride, 

Shall  go  to  meet  Him,  with  their  odorous  light 

Well  trimmed  and  burning  steadily  and  bright, 
And  entering  in  together,  side  by  side, 

In  wedding  garments  robed  of  purest  white, 

With  crowns  of  gold,  and  waving  boughs  of  palm, 
Sit  down  among  the  hosts  beatified, 

Guests  at  the  marriage  supper  of  the  Lamb. 

16 


XV. 


COMMUNION   OF  THE   SICK. 


KEBLE'S  POEM  IN  ANOTHER  VERSION. 


A  simple  altar  stood  beside  the  bed, 
With  plate,  and  chalice,  and  fair  linen  vest, 

For  that  communion  high  and  holy  spread  : 
We  ate  and  drank,  and  then,  serenely  blest, 

All  mourners,  one  with  calmly  parting  breath, 

We  talked  together  of  the  Saviour's  death. 
O  gentle  spirit,  from  thy  sainted  rest 

Look  down  upon  us  who  must  yet  remain, 

With  whom  thou  shared  the  hallowed  cup  of  grace, 
And  so  soon  parted ;  thou  to  Christ's  embrace, 

We  to  the  world's  drear  loneliness  again ; 

Come,  and  remind  us  of  the  heavenly  strain 
We  practised  as  thou  passed  through  Eden's  door, 
To  be  sung  on,  with  angels  evermore. 
B  n 


®$£T  "&ft£T  "- 


XVI. 

THE  KNELL. 

Not  e'en  thy  heavenly  and  harmonious  swell, 

Calling  to  Sabbath  worship  with  a  sound 

From  tower  to  tower  reverberated  round, 
Can  with  my  spirit  harmonize  so  well 
As  that  sad  requiem,  melancholy  bell ! 

Which  with  unvaried  cadence,  stern  and  dull. 

Tolls  for  the  burial  of  the  beautiful. 
There  is  a  potent  and  a  thrilling  spell 

In  every  solitary  stroke,  to  start 
Long-cherished  thoughts  from  memory's  inmost  cell, 
And  deep  affections ;  while  each  warning  tone 

That  rests,  'mid  solemn  pauses  far  apart, 
Like  drops  of  water  dripping  on  a  stone, 

Cheerless  and  ceaseless,  wears  into  the  heart. 

18 


^^&^(^^|Q&^q^|||?^|Q^|Q^ 


^^ 


XVII. 

SAINT  JAMES  THE  APOSTLE. 

When  Herod  had  "put  forth  his  hand  in  hate 

To  vex  the  Church,  and  thy  heart's  blood  was  pour'd 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  persecuting  sword, 
First  of  the  chosen  twelve,  't  is  said  thy  fate 
So  wrought  on  thine  accuser,  that,  o'ercome 

By  thine  example,  and  by  grace  subdued, 

He  came,  with  voluntary  fortitude, 
To  share  the  torture  of  thy  martyrdom, 

And  thus  pronounce  his  conscience  satisfied. 

Cheering  each  other  onward,  side  by  side, 
Together  went  betrayer  and  betrayed, 
And  on  the  self-same  block  their  heads  were  laid ; 

And  while  their  blood  the  self-same  scaffold  dyed, 
The  self-same  faith  unshrinkingly  displayed. 

]9 


XVIII. 

SAINT  BARTHOLOMEW. 

Though  it  were  eminence  enough  to  be 

Enrolled  among  the  apostolic  few, 
Who,  at  their  Master's  call,  devotedly 

Went  forth  his  self-denying  work  to  do, 

This  is  not  all  thy  praise,  Bartholomew  ; 
Thou  for  such  fellowship  wast  set  apart 

By  One  who  saw  thee  from  afar,  and  knew 
Thy  spirit  undefiled  and  void  of  art. 

And  still  the  portrait  which  thy  Saviour  drew 
Bears  record  to  thy  singleness  of  heart. 
For  wide  as  Gospel  tidings  have  been  spread 

Throughout  all  tongues,  o'er  continent  and  isle, 
Shall  this  memorial  to  thy  worth  be  read,  — 

An  Israelite  indeed,  in  whoin  there  is  no  guile. 
20 


XIX. 


SAINT  MATTHEW. 


Renouncing  a  vocation  so  abhorred, 

Uncertain  riches  and  the  lust  of  gain, 
How  blest  it  were,  commanded  by  the  Lord, 

While  yet  he  passes  by,  to  join  his  train, 
And,  taking  up  his  cross,  to  walk  like  thee ! 

Nor  be  the  power  of  those  examples  vain 
Which  thine  own  sacred  registries  record  ; 
But,  written  for  our  learning,  may  they  be 
Read,  marked,  discerned,  digested  inwardly, 

Until  we  see  the  path  of  duty  plain, 
Embrace  the  truth,  and  ever  hold  it  fast, 
And  pressing  onward,  daily  self-surpassed, 

By  comfort  of  that  holy  word,  attain 
The  same  eternal  promises  at  last. 
21 


SsM&MbM&*£*ji 


■  i^U 


xx. 

MICHAELMAS. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates  ! 

While,  with  our  brethren  of  the  crystal  sky, 

God's  glorious  name  we  laud  and  magnify. 
Angels,  Archangels,  Powers,  and  Potentates, 
Dominions,  Thrones,  and  thou,  pre-eminent, 

Amornj  the  leaders  of  the  orders  bright, 

Who  beat  in  battle  from  the  starry  height 
Th'  apostate  spirit  down  his  dread  descent. 

With  these,  O  Michael,  the  redeemed  unite 
In  that  triumphant  and  eternal  hymn, 
Which,  passing  to  each  other,  Cherubim 

And  Seraphim  continually  do  cry  : 
Holy,  thrice  holy,  Lord  of  love  and  light ! 

All  glory  be  to  thee,  O  God  most  high ! 
22 


XXI. 

SAINT  LUKE. 

Blessed  Physician  !  from  thy  ancient  scroll 
.Can  we  not  draw  some  wholesome  medicine 
To  heal  the  heart  that  sickens  with  its  sin, 

And  cure  the  deep  distemper  of  the  soul  ? 

Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead,  to  make  whole 
The  bruised  and  broken  spirit,  and  within 
The  bleeding  bosom  stanch  the  wound,  and  win 

The  stubborn  malady  to  its  control  ? 

Blessed  Physician !  happy  is  thy  dole, 

Whose  praise  hath  in  the  Gospel  ever  been  ; 

For  thou  wast  His  disciple  who  could  bring 
Help  to  the  helpless  on  their  bed  of  pain, 
And  from  the  gates  of  double  death  again 

Restore  the  hopeless  in  their  languishing. 


XXII. 


FOXE'S  BOOK   OF  MARTYRS. 


I  well  remember,  from  my  earliest  age, 

How,  with  a  yearning  heart,  I  loved  to  look, . 
Old  Chronicler,  upon  thy  pictured  page, 

That  lent  a  glory  to  thy  Martyrs'  Book ; 
And  as  I  saw  the  patient  sufferers  there, 

Like  the  three  children  in  the  furnace  flame, 
Without  a  smell  of  fire,  unsinged  their  hair, 

From  year  to  year  unaltered  and  the  same, 
I  thought  that  even  martyrdom  was  light, 

And  counted  them  as  happy  who  endured 
A  fire  no  fiercer  than  it  seemed  to  sight, 

Of  God's  good  will  eternally  secured  ! 
Thus  do  we  look  on  sufferings  yet  untried, 
Which  man  can  only  bear,  when  Heaven  is  on  his 
side! 

24 


<p>      (§i§)     @i®     <§£§>     @t§>      @ 


@w 


XXIII. 


VALEDICTORY. 


ON  CL03ING  A   SERIES   OP  POEMS   SIGNED   "ASAPH." 

Why  have  I  dared  to  wake  the  sacred  string, 
Silent  for  ages,  fearing  not  to  hold 
High  harping  with  that  glorious  bard  of  old, 

The  chief  musician  to  the  minstrel  king  ? 

Alas !  that  e'er  presumptuous  hand  should  bring 
Dishonour  on  that  borrowed  name,  or  wrong 
The  leader  in  the  service  of  the  song. 

Though  fain  to  make  his  loud  Shoshannim  ring 
In  concert  with  the  consecrated  throng,  — 
Who  in  their  solemn  courses,  all  life  long, 
Kept  Zion's  courts  resounding  with  its  swell,  — 

So  faint  and  fitful  are  the  sounds  I  fling, 
My  soul  recoils  lest  they  profane  the  shell ; 
Farewell,  then,  hallowed  harp !  forever  fare  thee 
well! 

25 


XXIY 


PALINODE. 


"  Lady,  for  thee  to  speak,  and  be  obeyed, 
Aee  one." 

While  I,  adventurous  all  too  long,  retire, 
Expecting  scarcely  pardon,  much  less  praise, 
The  unstrung  chords  what  sweeping  spirit  sways  ? 

What  sudden  murmurings  from  the  abandoned  lyre 

Pass  on  the  breeze,  and,  as  they  pass,  expire  ? 
O,  could  my  disproportioned  powers  retain, 
Forever  treasured  up,  that  cherished  tone, 
And  blend,  yet  not  abase  it,  with  my  own, 
Its  sweet  reproaches  had  not  been  in  vain  ; 

Yea,  could  I,  kindled  with  a  kindred  fire, 
But  hope  to  catch  the  echoings  of  that  voice 

Which  bids  my  harp  renew  its  feeble  strain, 
How  would  my  bounding  bosom  then  rejoice, 

Nor  breathe  distrust  of  God's  good  gifts  again ! 


XXV. 


A  PRAYER, 


ON   BEGINNING  A  PERIODICAL  NAMED    "  THE  WATCHMAN. 


O  Thou,  whom  slumber  reacheth  not,  nor  sleep, 
The  guardian  God  of  Zion,  in  whose  sight 
A  thousand  years  pass  like  a  watch  at  night, 

Her  battlements  and  high  munitions  keep, 
Or  else  the  Watchman  waketh  but  in  vain. 

Him,  in  his  station  newly  set,  make  strong, 
And,  in  his  vigils,  vigilant ;  sustain 

His  overwearied  spirit,  in  its  long 

And  lonely  round  from  eve  till  matin-song  ; 

And  of  Thy  charge  remind  him,  Watch  and  pray. 

So,  whether  coming  at  the  midnight  bell, 
Or  at  cock-crowing,  or  at  break  of  day, 

Thou  find  him  faithful,  and  say,  All  is  well, 

How  rich  is  the  reward  of  that  true  sentinel ' 

27 


XXYI. 

TRINITY   COLLEGE,  HARTFORD. 

In  after  days  shall  come  heroic  youth, 

Warm  from  the  school  of  glory :  With  a  pride 
I  quote  thy  high  prediction,  Akenside, 

In  joyous  hope  to  realize  its  truth, 

Ere  envious  Time  print  his  undainty  tooth 

Upon  these  sombre  walls ;  which  then  descried 
'Mid  groves  that  half  develope  and  half  hide, 

Shall  haply  stay  some  loiterer  by  the  flow 

Of  Hart's  sweet  waves,  that  gladden  as  they  glide 

By  wooded  steep,  green  bank,  and  margin  low, 
Till  o'er  his  soul  float  up  in  classic  dream 

The  long-lost  image  of  the  Portico, 

The  Sophist's  seat  fast  by  Eyssus'  stream, 
Lyceum's  green  retreats,  and  walks  of  Academe. 


^Vijiyilyif^ 

i'i  i-'i'  >'i  yi  yi  y£  y<:  yc  y±  y<.  y-c  vi  yi  y<  y<  y£  y£  yi  y£  w  :§ 


XXVII 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  PASTOR 

Devoted  shepherd  of  thy  Saviour's  flock ! 

From  thy  sublime  and  loved  vocation  rent, 
'T  is  joy  to  know  the  overwhelming  shock 

Of  thy  bewept  departure  shall  augment 
The  multitudinous  army  of  the  good, 
And  raise  thee  to  that  holy  brotherhood. 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Thy  body  is  committed  to  the  ground ; 
Thy  spirit,  with  all  Christian  graces  crowned, 

(Such  is  our  certain  confidence  and  trust,) 

Enjoys  communion  with  the  sainted  just. 
Long  may  such  servants  of  the  Church  abound, 

And,  from  the  altars  where  thy  light  has  stood, 
Shed  burning  lustre  on  the  land  around ! 


XXVIII. 

BURIAL   OF  ASHMUN. 

What  desolate  mourner  rushes  to  the  bier, 
And  stays  the  solemn  rites  of  this  sad  hour  ? 

O  God,  sustain  her  as  she  draweth  near, 
Support  her  in  the  struggles  that  o'erpower ! 

It  is  a  childless  mother  that  bows  down 

Beside  the  coffined  corpse,  amid  trie  crowd  ; 

It  is  the  ashes  of  her  only  son, 

His  living  face  unseen  for  many  a  year  : 

Well  may  she  lift  her  voice,  and  weep  aloud. 

The  world  cannot  console  her.     God  alone 

Hath  power  to  speak  to  such  a  sorrowing  one, 
And  take  her  dreadful  load  of  grief  away : 
To  man  it  is  not  given  ;  for  who  can  say, 

In  his  own  single  strength,  "  Thy  will  be  done  " 


XXIX 


MEMORIAL 


OF  A  COLOURED  CLERGYMAN  ORDAINED  FOR  A  MISSION 
TO  AFRICA. 

Not  on  the  voyage  which  our  hopes  had  planned 
Shalt  thou  go  forth,  poor  exile,  o'er  the  main ; 

The  savage  glories  of  thy  fatherland 
Shall  never  bless  thy  aged  sight  again  ; 
Nor  shalt  thou  toil  to  loose  a  heavier  chain 

Than  e'er  was  fastened  by  the  spoiler's  hand. 

And  yet  the  work  for  which  thy  bosom  yearned 
Shall  never  rest,  though  Sin  and  Death  detain 
Messiah  from  his  many-peopled  reign, 

Till  all  thy  captive  brethren  have  returned. 

But  thou  hast  gained,  (O  blest  exchange  !)  instead, 
A  better  country,  and  a  heavenly  home, 
Where  all  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord  shall  come, 

With  everlasting  joy  upon  their  head. 

31 


XXX 


TO   A  FRIEND, 


OX  HIS   CONSECRATION  TO  THE  EPISCOPATE. 


Let  no  gainsaying  lips  despise  thy  youth ; 

Like  his,  the  great  Apostle's  favourite  son, 

Whose  early  rule  at  Ephesus  begun, 
Thy  Lrini  and  thy  Thummini  —  Light  and  Truth  — 

Be  thy  protection  from  the  Holy  One  : 
And  for  thy  fiery  trials,  be  there  shed 
A  sevenfold  grace  on  thine  anointed  head, 

Till  thy  right  onward  course  shall  all  be  run. 
And  when  thy  earthly  championship  is  through, 

Thy  -warfare  fought,  thy  fearful  battle  won, 
And  heaven's  own  palms  of  triumph  bright  in  view, 

May  this  thy  thrilling  welcome  be  :  Well  done  ! 
Because  thou  hast  been  faithful  over  few, 
A  inio-htier  rule  be  thine,  0  servant  good  and  true  ' 


XXXI. 

THE   CATECHIST. 

TO  A  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  TEACHER. 

Much  do  we  miss  thee  from  thy  gentle  task 

Of  love  and  mercy,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
As  gather  round  thy  little  ones,  to  ask 

What  keeps  their  kindly  Teacher  far  away. 
The  sweet  and  solemn  quiet  of  the  hours, 

The  sounds  as  solemn  and  as  sweet  as  they, 
In  sevenfold  cadence  flung  from  yon  old  towers, 

"Where  thou  so  oft  hast  met  with  us  to  pray,  — 
These  and  the  blessing  on  each  head  that  brings 

Young  souls  from  darkness  into  light  divine, 
Connect  thy  memory  with  all  heavenliest  things, 

And  make  a  day  of  glorious  prospect  thine, 
When  they  shall  rise  on  strong,  immortal  wings, 

And  like  a  starry  firmament  shall  shine. 

C  33 


XXXII. 


IN  AN  ALBUM. 


Here,  Lady,  as  from  some  Sibylline  leaf, 

Read  of  the  after  time,  when  thou  shalt  know 
Thou  hast  a  mightier  book  than  Prospero  ; 
Albeit  he  of  necromancers  chief 

Boasted  his  volume  of  enchanting  power, 
(As  thou  hast  read,  whose  leisure  loves  to  pore 
On  Britain's  and  thy  country's  choicest  lore,) 

To  call  departed  spirits  to  his  bower. 
This  is  the  potent  tome,  which  erewhile,  spread 
At  mystic  moments,  when  thy  soul  has  read 
Each  penman's  spellwork,  howsoever  brief, 

Shall  straight  recall  his  form  in  life  and  limb ; 
Then  Heaven  forefend,  that  gentle  hearts,  with  grief, 
Or  yet  in  anger,  should  remember  him. 


XXXIII. 


TO  A  WINGED  FIGURE  BY  RAPHAEL. 


Whether  thou  gazest  up  to  some  far  isle 

In  the  star-sprinkled  depths  above,  where  live 
The  race  from  whom  thou  art  a  fugitive, 

Unseen,  unheard  from,  for  a  dreary  while  ; 

Or  whether,  seeking  to  restrain  the  smile 
That  rises  to  thy  lips,  thy  fingers  strive 
To  hide  what  eyes  so  bold  and  bright  contrive  ; 

Or  whether,  meditating  good  or  guile, 
Thou  restest  on  thine  arm  contemplative,  — 
Are  problems  deeper  than  where  thought  can  dive. 

But  if  thy  breast  be  not  a  holy  pile, 

Where  naught  unclean  hath  entered  to  defile, 
Then  Heaven  forgive  thee,  false  one !  and  forgive 

That  I  should  trifle  with  a  theme  so  vile. 

35 


XXXIY. 

MEDITATION 

OS  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CLERGYMAN. 

As  some  tall  column  meets  its  overthrow, 
And  levelled  in  the  dust  reclines,  at  length, 
In  all  its  graceful  symmetry  of  strength, 

So  manhood,  in  his  middle  years,  lies  low, 

Singled  by  death  from  out  the  stateliest, 
TVhile  yet  he  lifts  his  towering  head  elate, 
And  feels  the  firmer  for  the  very  weight 

Of  all  that  in  dependence  on  him  rest. 

Ah,  why  should  we  bewail  his  present  fall, 
Though  prostrate  now,  and  basely  undertrod, 

If,  at  the  Master  Builder's  final  call, 

He  stand  amid  the  upright  as  before, 
A  pillar  in  the  temple  of  his  God, 

And  from  his  happy  station  go  no  more  ? 

36 


(S^S^fe) 


POEMS 


tfR 


CLOUDS. 

"  Cloud-land !  gorgeous  land !  "  —  Coleridge. 

I  cannot  look  above,  and  see 

Yon  high-piled,  pillowy  mass 
Of  evening  clouds,  so  swimmingly 

In  gold  and  purple  pass, 
And  think  not,  Lord,  how  Thou  wast  seen 

On  Israel's  desert  way, 
Before  them,  in  thy  shadowy  screen, 

Pavilioned  all  the  day  ;  — 

Or  of  those  robes  of  gorgeous  hue 

Which  the  Redeemer  wore, 
When,  ravished  from  his  followers'  view, 

Aloft  his  flight  he  bore  ; 
When,  lifted  as  on  mighty  wing, 

He  curtained  his  ascent, 
And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  went  triumphing 

Above  the  firmament. 


40  CLOUDS. 

Is  it  a  trail  of  that  same  pall 

Of  many-coloured  dyes 
That  high  above,  o'ermantling  all, 

Hangs  midway  down  the  skies  ? 
Or  borders  of  those  sweeping  folds 

Which  shall  be  all  unfurled 
About  the  Saviour,  when  he  holds 

His  judgment  on  the  world  ? 

For  in  like  manner  as  he  went 

(My  soul,  hast  thou  forgot  ?) 
Shall  be  his  terrible  descent, 

When  man  expecteth  not. 
Strength,  Son  of  man  !  against  that  hour, 

Be  to  our  spirits  given, 
When  thou  shalt  come  again,  with  power, 

Upon  the  clouds  of  heaven. 


DEINK,  AND  AWAY! 

"  There  is  a  beautiful  rill  in  Barbary  received  into  a  large  basin, 
which  bears  a  name  signifying  Drink,  and  away  !  from  the  great 
danger  of  meeting  with  rogues  and  assassins." 


Dr.  Shaw. 


Up,  pilgrim  and  rover ! 

Redouble  thy  haste, 
Nor  rest  thee  till  over 

Life's  wearisome  waste : 
Ere  the  wild  forest  ranger 

Thy  footsteps  betray 
To  trouble  and  danger, 

O,  drink,  and  away ! 


Here  lurks  the  dark  savage 

By  night  and  by  day, 
To  rob  and  to  ravage, 

Nor  scruples  to  slay. 
He  waits  for  the  slaughter ; 

The  blood  of  his  prey 
Shall  stain  the  still  water  ; 

Then  drink,  and  away ! 


42  DRINK,  AND  AWAY! 

With  toil  though  thou  languish, 

The  mandate  obey  : 
Spur  on,  though  in  anguish ; 

There 's  death  in  delay. 
No  bloodhound,  want-wasted, 

Is  fiercer  than  they  ; 
Pass  by  it  untasted, 

Or  drink,  and  away  ! 

Though  sore  be  the  trial, 

Thy  God  is  thy  stay ; 
Though  deep  the  denial, 

Yield  not  in  dismay ; 
But,  rapt  in  high  vision, 

Look  on  to  the  day 
When  fountains  elysian 

Thy  thirst  shall  allay. 

Then  shalt  thou  forever 

Enjoy  thy  repose, 
Where  life's  gentle  river 

Eternally  flows ; 
Yea,  there  shalt  thou  rest  thee 

Forever  and  aye, 
With  none  to  molest  thee  : 

Then  drink,  and  away ! 


^ 


WHEELOCK  COTTAGE,  MEDFIELD. 

O,  worthy  of  the  artist's  skill, 

And  passing  fair  to  see, 
That  humble  cot  beneath  the  hill, 

That  shadowing  willow-tree ; 
The  places  where,  with  hook  and  line, 

We  dabbled  in  the  pond, 
(From  morning  sun  to  hungry  dine,) 

And  all  that  lies  beyond ! 

But  who  shall  paint  the  inmate  there, 

The  pleasant  face  that  made 
The  scene  around  us  doubly  fair. 

And  sunshine  in  the  shade,  — 
Whose  cheerful  age,  reproving  me 

When  I  at  luck  repine, 
Seems,  in  its  soothing  harmony, 

So  like  to  auld  lang  syne  ? 

43 


44 


WHEELOCK  COTTAGE. 


A  thousand  happy  days  and  blest 

May  Heaven  award  thee  still, 
Dear  friend !  before  thou  go  to  rest 

With  those  upon  the  hill ; 
There  may'st  thou  meet,  in  love's  embrace, 

The  friends  thou  here  hast  known, 
And  see  each  fond,  familiar  face 

As  happy  as  thine  own. 


024 


THE  ROBIN'S  NEST, 

DESTROYED  BY  A  CAT. 

All  day,  from  yonder  churchyard  tree, 

The  redbreast,  mourning  for  his  mate, 
Has  poured  that  thrilling  elegy, 

Heart-broken  and  disconsolate. 
Her  favourite  bough  he  never  leaves  ; 

He  never  ceases  to  complain ; 
But  grieves,  as  if,  like  man,  he  grieves 

The  more  because  he  grieves  in  vain. 

Poor  bird !  a  troubled  thought  they  wake, 

Those  notes  of  unaffected  sorrow,  — 
The  thought  how  this  sad  heart  may  ache 

With  that  same  bitter  pang  to-morrow. 
I  dare  not  think  what  clouds  of  gloom 

Upon  our  sunny  hopes  may  fall, 
And  in  one  hour  of  bliss  may  doom 

Dear  mate,  and  nest,  and  nestlings  all ! 

45 


NATURE  AND   REVELATION. 

IMITATED  FROM  THE  PERSIAN  OF  KHOSROO. 

I  wandered  by  the  burying-place, 

And  sorely  there  I  wept, 
To  think  how  many  of  my  friends 

Within  its  mansions  slept ; 
And,  wrung  with  bitter  grief,  I  cried 

Aloud  in  my  despair, 
Where,  dear  companions,  have  ye  fled  ? 

And  Echo  answered,  Where  ? 

While  Nature's  voice  thus  flouted  me, 

A  voice  from  heaven  replied,  — 
0,  weep  not  for  the  happy  dead, 

Who  in  the  Lord  have  died ; 
Sweet  is  their  rest  who  sleep  in  Christ, 

Though  lost  awhile  to  thee  ; 
Tread  in  their  steps,  and  sweeter  still 

Your  meeting  hour  shall  be ! 

46 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHTS 

Pet  lilies  of  your  kind, 

Effeminate  and  pale, 
That  shiver  in  the  autumn  wind, 

Like  reeds  before  the  gale, 
Ye  have  not  toiled  nor  spun, 

As  sister  lilies  might, 
Nor  are  ye  wise  as  Solomon, 

Though  sumptuous  to  the  sight. 


0  fair,  and  well  arrayed  ! 

And  are  ye  they  to  whom 
The  world  is  under  tribute  laid 

For  finery  and  perfume  ? 
And  have  ye  no  delight, 

Naught  else  that  may  avail, 
To  weather  that  eternal  night, 

When  these  expedients  fail  ? 

a  See  Young,  Night  Second,  lines  232  -  253. 
47 


GREECE. 

u  A  debtor  to  the  Greeks."  —  St.  Paul. 

Upon  thy  sacred  mountain-tops, 

How  beautiful,  0  Greece, 
The  feet  of  him  that  publisheth 

Through  all  thy  borders  peace  ! 
Like  Paul,  his  spirit  to  release 

Of  those  high  claims  he  seeks. 
Which  bankrupt  all  the  love  we  owe 

As  debtors  to  the  Greeks. 

A  piercing  cry  from  Macedon 

Rings  o'er  the  ocean  still,  * 

A  cry  from  Athens,  and  the  shrine 

Upon  its  idol-hill. 
A  cry  from  Corinth  and  the  Isles 

Of  loud  entreaty  speaks : 
Up,  Christians !  to  your  great  discharge, 

As  debtors  to  the  Greeks. 

43 


ffHHft 


THE  BROOK  KEDRON. 

"  He  went  over  the  brook  Kedron  with  his  disciples."  —  St.  John. 

The  vale  of  thy  brook  of  Life's  valley  so  drear 

Meet  emblem,  dark  Kedron,  might  be, 
As  it  swelled  in  its  hurried  and  horrid  career 

To  the  depths  of  a  desolate  sea : 
Unceasingly  fed  with  the  blood  of  the  slain 

From  the  Temple's  far  height  was  its  flow, 
Till  it  seemed  like  some  wounded  and  wandering  vein 

That  was  lost  in  the  distance  below. 

There  David  went  over,  and  wept  as  he  went ; 

There  his  Son  in  his  sorrow  passed  o'er, 
And  his  garments  were  dipped  in  its  crimson  de- 
scent, 

Like  a  warrior's,  wading  in  gore  ; 
And,  wrapt  in  forebodings  of  anguish  and  woe, 

It  heightened  that  vision  of  pain, 
When  the  blood  of  a  mightier  Victim  should  flow, 

And  the  Lamb  of  the  promise  be  slain. 

D  49 


50 


THE  BROOK  KEDRON. 


Now,  Kedron,  for  ages  thy  course  has  been  dried, 

And  thy  sands  are  unmarked  with  a  stain, 
Since  the  Victim  ordained  from  eternity  died, 

And  the  Lamb  of  the  promise  was  slain ; 
The  pflgrim  now  passes  dry-shod  o'er  thy  bed, 

And  the  thought  to  his  spirit  may  lay, 
He  who  drank  of  the  brook  hath  uplifted  his  head, 

And  hath  borne  our  transgressions  away  ! 


THE   SYNAGOGUE. 

"  But  even  unto  this  day,  -when  Moses  is  read,  the  rail  is  upon 
their  heart.  Nevertheless,  when  it  shall  turn  to  the  Lord,  the 
vail  shall  be  taken  away."  —  St.  Paul. 

I  saw  them  in  their  synagogue  as  in  their  ancient 

day, 
And  never  from  my  memory  the  scene  shall  fade 

away  ; 
For  dazzling  on  my  vision  still  the  latticed  galleries 

shine 
With  Israel's  loveliest  daughters,  in  their   beauty 

half  divine. 

It  is  the  holy  Sabbath  eve  ;  the  solitary  light 
Sheds,  mingled  with  the  hues  of  day,  a  lustre  noth- 
ing bright ; 

51 


52 


THE  SYNAGOGUE. 


On  swarthy  brow  and  piercing  glance  it  falls  with 

saddening  tinge, 
And  dimly  gilds  the  Pharisee's  phylacteries  and 

fringe. 

The  two-leaved  doors  slide  slow  apart  before  the 
Eastern  screen, 

As  rise  the  Hebrew  harmonies,  with  chanted  pray- 
ers between ; 

And  'mid  the  tissued  veils  disclosed,  of  many  a  gor- 
geous dye, 

Enveloped  in  their  jewelled  scarfs,  the  sacred  rec- 
ords lie. 

Robed  in  his  sacerdotal  vest,  a  silvery-headed  man, 
With  voice  of  solemn  cadence,  o'er  the  backward 

letters  ran ; 
And  often  yet  methinks  I  see  the  glow  and  power 

that  sate 
Upon  his  face,  as  forth  he  spread  the  roll  immaculate. 


And  fervently,  that  hour,  I  prayed,  that  from  the 
mighty  scroll 

Its  light,  in  burning  characters,  might  break  on  ev- 
ery soul ; 

That  on  their  hardened  hearts  the  veil  might  be  no 
longer  dark, 

But  be  forever  rent  in  twain,  like  that  before  the  ark. 


THE  SYNAGOGUE. 


53 


For  yet  the  tenfold  film  shall  fall,  O  Judah !  from 
thy  sight, 

And  every  eye  be  purged  to  read  thy  testimonies 
right, 

When  thou,  with  all  Messiah's  signs  in  Christ  dis- 
tinctly seen, 

Shalt,  by  Jehovah's  nameless  name,  invoke  the  Naz- 
arene. 


MIDNIGHT  THOUGHT. 

*T  is  the  very  verge  of  the  midnight  deep, 

And  I  hark  for  the  passing-bell, 
That  shall  presently  come,  with  its  solemn  sweep, 

To  bid  the  last  hour  farewell ; 
A  lonely  vigil  it  is  to  keep, 

As  I  sadly  think  of  those 
Who  have  sunk  away  to  their  long,  last  sleep, 

And  their  undisturbed  repose. 

But  O,  how  happy  to  think,  this  night, 

Of  the  eyes  that  are  shut,  like  flowers, 
To  open  again  more  fresh  and  bright, 

With  the  brighter  and  fresher  hours : 
Of  the  hosts  of  God,  who  pitch  their  tents 

All  good  men  round  about, 
Protecting  their  slumbering  innocence, 

And  making  their  dreams  devout ! 

54 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


"  There  may  be  a  cloud  without  a  rainbow,  but  there  cannot  be 
a  rainbow  without  a  cloud." 


My  soul  were  dark 
But  for  the  golden  light  and  rainbow  hue, 
That,  sweeping  heaven  with  their  triumphal  arc, 

Break  on  the  view. 

Enough  to  feel 
That  God  indeed  is  good.     Enough  to  know, 
Without  the  gloomy  cloud,  He  could  reveal 

No  beauteous  bow. 


65 


r©<£v  <2A£>  <&X!JudtL£y'0<&  GAS)1 


PALESTINE. 


THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN. 


"  Several  travellers,  and,  among  others,  Troilo  and  D'Arvieux, 
assert  that  they  remarked  fragments  of  walls  and  palaces  in  the 
Dead  Sea.  This  statement  seems  to  be  confirmed  by  Maundrell 
and  Father  Nahan.  The  ancients  speak  more  positively  on  this 
subject.  Josephus,  who  employs  a  poetic  expression,  says  that 
he  perceived  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  the  shades  of  the  over- 
whelmed cities.  Strabo  gives  a  circumference  of  sixty  stadia  to 
the  ruins  of  Sodom,  which  are  mentioned  also  by  Tacitus.  I 
know  not  whether  they  still  exist ;  but  as  the  lake  rises  and  falls 
at  certain  seasons,  it  is  possible  that  it  may  alternately  cover  and 
expose  the  skeletons  of  the  reprobate  cities."  —  Chateaubriand. 

I  wandered  by  the  Dead  Sea  brink,  in  dreaming 

hour,  to  gaze 
Upon  the  awful  monuments  and  wrecks  of  ancient 

days, 
If  haply  yet  its  rocky  isles  might  alter  on  my  eyes, 
And,  like  some  arch  enchanter's  pile,  in  gramarye 

arise ; 

56 


PALESTINE.  57 

If  yet  the  clustering  bitumen  its  rude  resemblance 
bore 

To  pomps  that  here  had  glorified  the  younger  world 
before, 

And  peering  still  above  the  tide,  if  summits  might 
be  seen, 

Magnificent,  like  Baly's  towers,  in  sunlight  and  sea- 
green. 

A  mournful  sight  it  was,  I  ween,  that  sea,  from 

shore  to  shore 
Unruffled  by  one  venturous  wing,  unbroken  by  an 

oar; 
The  air  above,  the  earth  around,  the  desolate  ex- 
panse 
Beneath  my  feet,  were  all  alike  without  inhabitants ; 
And,  nearest  like  to  living  thing,  the  evening  wind 

was  loud, 
And  Jordan,  as  its  raving  streams  contested  passage 

crowd, 
And  suffocating  bursts  of  smoke  that  poison  all  the 

air, 
Told  how  God's  early  wrath  had  left  eternal  traces 

there. 

But  louder  than  the  Jordan's  rush,  and  deeper  than 

the  breeze 
That  rustled  in  the  hollow  reeds,  methought,  were 

sounds  like  these ; 


58  PALESTINE. 

They  came  up  with  the  sulphurous  fumes  that  from 

the  surface  broke, 
As  if  the  voice  of  those  below  in  solemn  warning 

spoke : — 
O,  had  the  wonders  here  been  done  which  now  are 

done  in  vain, 
Still  had  these  buried  cities  stood,  the  glory  of  the 

plain ; 
But  darker  is  thy  country's  doom,  and  better  shall 

it  be 
For  Sodom,  in  the  judgment  day,  than,  guilty  land, 

for  thee ! 


AFEICA. 

When  shall  thy  centre  opened  be  ? 

When  shall  the  veil,  that  lay 
Upon  that  land  of  mystery 

So  long,  be  torn  away  ? 
When  shall  the  hallowed  Cross  be  seen 

Far  In  those  sunny  tracts, 
Beyond  the  lofty  mountain  screen, 

And  thundering  cataracts  ? 

When  shall  thy  daily  barks,  that  bring 

Rich  lading  to  the  sea, 
Of  plumes  of  gorgeous  colouring 

And  choicest  ivory, 
And  incense  of  acacia  groves, 

And  costly  gems,  and  grains 
Of  that  most  valued  gold  washed  down 

By  Abyssinian  rains ;  — 


60  AFRICA. 

When  snail  they  bear  a  freightage  back 

More  precious  than  those  woods, 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  Niger's  track 

In  seasons  of  the  floods  ? 
When  shall  each  kingdom  that  receives 

The  Gospel,  learn  to  prize 
The  treasures  hidden  in  its  leaves 

Above  all  merchandise  ? 

Then  bread  upon  thy  waters  cast 

Shall  not  be  cast  in  vain  ; 
But  after  many  days  are  past, 

It  shall  be  found  again. 
Then  thy  barbaric  sons  shall  sue, 

Nor  nature's  self  resist, 
An  entrance  for  their  kindred  true, 

The  dark  evangelist. 


SOUTH-SEA  MISSIONARIES. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PASSAGE  IN  STEWART'S  JOURNAL. 

With  pleasure  not  unmixed  with  pain, 

They  find  their  passage  o'er, 
As,  with  the  Sabbath's  dawn,  they  gain 

That  islet's  rocky  shore ; 
Behind  them  is  the  sweltering  main, 

The  torrid  land  before. 

No  sound  was  in  the  silence  heard 

To  break  the  air  of  balm, 
Save  when  the  screaming  tropic  bird 

Wheeled  seaward  in  the  calm  ; 
The  faint  and  heated  breeze  scarce  stirred 

The  streamers  of  the  palm. 

61 


62  SOUTH- SEA  MISSIONARIES. 

The  shipman  in  the  distance  sees, 

Across  the  glowing  bay, 
The  crowded,  straw-built  cottages, 

Like  sunburnt  ricks  of  hay, 
Beneath  the  tall  banana-trees, 

Bask  in  the  morning  ray. 

And  as  that  self-devoted  band 
Of  Christian  hearts  drew  near, 

No  cool  and  bracing  current  fanned 
The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

Why  should  they  seek  that  savage  land, 
So  desolate  and  drear  ? 

In  faith,  those  far-off  shores  they  trod, 

This  humble  six  or  seven, 
And  through  those  huts  of  matted  sod 

Shall  spread  the  gospel  leaven, 
Till  each  becomes  a  house  of  God, 

A  mercy-gate  of  heaven. 


THE  FEAST   OF  TABERNACLES. 


Methinks  there  is  indeed  a  feast 

In  these  inspiring  words  alone, 
Which  could  not  even  be  increased 

By  music's  most  enchanting  tone. 
My  inmost  sense  they  *avish  quite 

With  scenes  and  sounds  so  dear  to  me, 
They  fill  my  ear,  they  fill  my  sight, 

And  leave  no  room  for  minstrelsy. 


Raise  ye  who  will  the  spells  of  power 

In  which  the  sons  of  song  combine  : 
To  sit  and  muse  some  silent  hour 

O'er  these  transporting  leaves,  be  mine 
Here  pitch  my  verdant  tent ;  for  here 

He  must  have  felt  it  good  to  be, 
Who  built  these  tabernacles  dear 

To  Faith,  and  Fame,  and  Fantasy! 

63 


THE  MEETING   OF   THE   TRIBES. 

OX  THE  OPENING  OF  A  COUNCIL   OF  THE  CHVRCH. 
"  For  thither  the  tribes  go  up." 

The  tribes  have  gone  up,  not  in  battle  array, 

But  to  keep  on  God's  mountain  their  festival  day ; 

The  tribes  have  gone  up,  with  their  banners  dis- 
played, 

In  peace,  o'er  the  thousands  who  meet  in  then- 
shade . 


From  the  east,  from  the  west,  from  the  south,  from 

the  north, 
From  Dan  to  Beersheba,  their  powers  have  come 

forth  ; 
From  the  wide-spreading  valleys  their  ancients  are 

seen, 
And  the  dwellers  on  Lebanon's  mountains  so  green, 

64 


MEETING  OF  THE  TRIBES.  65 

And,  Judah,  thy  lordliest  lion  is  there, 
Unharmed,  from  the  glorious  depths  of  his  lair ; 
For  the  archers  have  fiercely  shot  at  him  in  vain, 
And  he  shakes  off  their  darts,  like  the  dew,  from  his 
mane. 

In  gladness  the  chosen  of  Levi  pour  out, 
And  the  feeblest  starts  up  at  the  summons  devout ; 
Nor  will  one  of  the  twelve  in  their  borders  abide, 
From  the  ship-covered  coast  to  the  Great  River's  side. 

May  the  dew  which,  like  Hermon's,  distils  from  above, 
Sink  deep  in  all  hearts,  and  inspire  them  with  love ; 
And  the  grace  on  the  head  of  the  aged  high-priest a 
Flow  down  on  the  greatest,  and  reach  to  the  least. 

The  spirit  of  peace  to  their  counsels  restore, 

O  God !  and  let  Ephraim  vex  Judah  no  more  ; 

The  spirit  of  might  and  of  wisdom  impart, 

Nor  let  Reuben's  divisions  cause  searching  of  heart. 

So  the  least  of  all  seeds  shall  become  a  great  tree, 
And  shall  spread  from  the  mountains  its  boughs  to 

the  sea, 
Till  all  the  wide  land  with  its  shelter  is  blest, 
From  the  dawning  of  day  to  the  uttermost  west. 

a  Bishop  White. 


W-W^.W-J-S 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  FAREWELL. 

The  signal  is  made  from  yon  mast  o'er  the  trees, 
Which  nods  to  the  billows,  and  beckons  the  bree  j  ; 
The  anchor 's  upheaved,  and  the  sails  are  unfur  ?d, 
To  carry  him  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  world. 

And  now  the  near  headlands  already  float  by, 
And  the  half-shrouded  cottages  swim  in  his  eye  ; 
And  a  thousand  past  joys  are  recalled  by  the  view, 
Which  his  bosom  can  never,  O,  never  renew ! 


At  length  he  puts  forth  from  his  own  native  bay, 
And  the  bark  of  his  country  sweeps  southward  away ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  messenger  inwardly  bleeds, 
As  each  object  grows  dim  on  the  shore,  and  recedes. 


THE  MISSIONARY'S  FAREWELL.     67 

How  can  he  refrain  from  the  strong  burst  of  tears, 
As  the  land  of  his  forefathers  fast  disappears, 
As  the  mountains  and  hill-tops  grow  dusky  and  dun, 
And  turret  and  spire  fade  away  one  by  one  ! 

But  his  bosom,  alas  !  shall  more  bitterly  ache 
O'er  the  tenderer  ties  which  that  parting  must  break ; 
And  the  tears  will,  in  spite  of  his  manliness,  start, 
As  affection's  full  tide  rushes  back  on  his  heart. 

But  for  these  though  the  flesh  in  its  weakness  may 

yearn, 
His  spirit  is  willing,  he  would  not  return ; 
His  orders  are  onward,  't  is  his  to  obey ; 
He  dare  not  decline,  and  he  dare  not  delay. 

And  the  day  is  soon  coming  those  friends  to  restore, 
Whom  he  loveth  not  less,  but  his  Saviour  the  more, 
When  the  faithful  to  death  shall  receive  their  re- 
ward, 
And  together  partake  of  the  joy  of  their  Lord. 

With  him,  when  our  own  weary  voyage  is  past, 
Be  the  haven  of  happiness  entered  at  last, 
In  that  far  better  country,  undarkened  by  sin, 
Where  the  shouts  of  the  ransomed  shall  welcome 
us  in! 


STANZAS. 

Yon  distant  tower  of  old  gray  stone, 

The  verdure  of  the  trees, 
The  golden  sunlight  o'er  them  thrown,  — 

What  fairer  scene  than  these  ? 
The  organ  and  the  Sabbath  bell, 

Blent  like  the  far-off  sea,  — 
What  tones  the  raptured  heart  can  swell 

Up  to  such  ecstasy  ? 

To  human  sympathies  the  sight 

Is  dearer  far  within, 
When  all,  on  bended  knees,  unite 

In  penitence  for  sin ; 
And  heavenlier  far  the  thoughts  they  raise, 

When  human  voices  there 
Swell  high  the  glorious  tide  of  praise, 

Or  breathe  the  contrite  prayer. 


i  ....   ......  _  .  .  ..•;.:  i_)y«)^«*- 


•  s  t  *.  t  •  ~- »  * 


^i&Jfi 


THE   ORDINAL. 


*         Alas  for  me  could  I  forget 

The  memory  of  that  day 
Which  fills  my  waking  thoughts,  nor  yet 

E'en  sleep  can  take  away ; 
In  dreams  I  still  renew  the  rites 

Whose  strong  but  mystic  chain 
The  spirit  to  its  God  unites, 

And  none  can  part  again. 

How  oft  the  Bishop's  form  I  see, 

And  hear  that  thrilling  tone, 
Demanding,  with  authority, 

The  heart  for  God  alone  ! 
Again  I  kneel  as  then  I  knelt, 

While  he  above  me  stands, 
And  seem  to  feel  as  then  I  felt 

The  pressure  of  his  hands. 


70  THE   ORDINAL. 

Again  the  priests  in  meek  array, 

As  my  weak  spirit  fails, 
Beside  me  bend  them  down  to  pray 

Before  the  chancel  rails ; 
As  then  the  sacramental  host 

Of  God's  elect  are  by, 
When  many  a  voice  its  utterance  lost, 

And  tears  dimmed  many  an  eye. 

As  then  they  on  my  vision  rose, 

The  vaulted  aisles  I  see, 
And  desk  and  cushioned  book  repose 

In  solemn  'sanctity ; 
The  mitre  o'er  the  marble  niche, 

The  broken  crook  and  key, 
That  from  a  Bishop's  tomb  shone  rich 

With  polished  tracery ; 

The  hangings,  the  baptismal  font,  — 

All,  all,  save  me,  unchanged,  — 
The  holy  table,  as  was  wont, 

With  decency  arranged  ; 
The  linen  cloth,  —  the  plate,  the  cup, 

Beneath  their  covering  shine, 
Ere  priestly  hands  are  lifted  up 

To  bless  the  bread  and  wine. 


THE   ORDINAL.  71 

The  solemn  ceremonial  past, 

And  I  am  set  apart 
To  serve  the  Lord,  from  first  to  last, 

With  undivided  heart : 
And  I  have  sworn,  with  pledges  dire, 

Which  God  and  man  have  heard, 
To  speak  the  holy  truth  entire 

In  action  and  in  word  ! 


O  Thou,  who  in  Thy  holy  place 

Hast  set  Thine  orders  three, 
Grant  me,  Thy  meanest  servant,  grace 

To  win  a  good  degree  ; 
That  so,  replenished  from  above, 

And  in  mine  office  tried, 
Thou  mayst  be  honoured,  and  in  love 

Thy  Church  be  edified. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   ST.  PAUL'S  DAY. 

"  At  mid-day,  0  king,  I  saw  in  the  way  a  light  from  heaven, 
above  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  shining  round  about  me  and 
them  which  journeyed  with  me.  Whereupon,  0  King  Agrippa, 
I  was  not  disobedient  unto  the  heavenly  vision." 

How  swift  the  years  have  come  and  gone,  since,  on 

this  blessed  day, 
A  victim  at  the  altar's  horn,  I  gave  myself  away ; 
And,  streaming  through  the  house  of  God,  a  glory 

seemed  to  shine, 
Invisible  to  other  eyes,  but  manifest  to  mine. 

It  was  not  in  his  terrours  clad,  nor  with  those  to- 
kens dire, 

The  rushing  of  the  whirlwind's  wing,  the  earth- 
quake, and  the  fire, 

Nor  yet  amid  the  blasting  blaze  that  makes  the 
sunshine  dim, 

And  pales  the  ineffectual  beams  that  minister  to 
Him: 

72 


~ 


ST.  PAUL'S  DAY.  73 

Serene  was  that  effulgent  noon,  and  gladdening 

was  the  ray, 
Which  made  a  heavenly  vision  there  I  could  not 

disobey ; 
And  gentle   those  subduing  tones  which  soothed 

and  tempered  all, 
As  with  the  holy  harmony  of  voices  still  and  small. 

0  father,  mother,  brethren,  friends,  no  less  than 

brethren  dear! 
Who  promised,  at  this  solemn  hour,  to  be  in  spirit 

near, 
Say,  is  it  not  your  influence  in  blended  prayer  I 

feel, 
As  now  before  the  mercy-seat  from  many  shrines 

we  kneel  ? 

1  would  my  heart  might  ever  thus  dissolve  with  fer- 

vent heat, 
As  here,  fast  by  the  oracle,  the  service  I  repeat ; 
That  even  in  my  inmost  soul  the  same  rejoicing 

light 
Might  burn,  like  Zion's  altar  flame,  unquenchable 

and  bright. 


CHRIST   CHURCH,  BOSTON. 

"  I  know  thy  works,  and  where  thou  dwellest,  even  where  Sa- 
tan's seat  is ;  and  thou  holdest  fast  thy  name,  and  hast  not  denied 
my  faith." 

Not  for  thy  pomp  and  pride  of  place, 

Not  for  thy  relics  rare 
Of  kings,  and  ministers  of  grace, 

Whose  names  thy  vessels  bear ; 
Not  for  thy  boast  of  high  degree, 

Nor  charms  of  gorgeous  style, 
Hast  thou  been  ever  dear  to  me, 

O  thou  time-honoured  pile ! 

But  for  thy  constant  truth,  which  still 

Preserves,  from  age  to  age 
Unmoved,  through  good  report  and  ill, 

The  Fathers'  heritage ; 
Which  firmly  as  the  hills  remains, 

As  years  have  o'er  thee  swept, 
And  singly,  'mid  apostate  fanes, 

The  ancient  faith  has  kept. 

74 


CHRIST  CHURCH,  BOSTON.  75 

For  sixscore  years  thy  lofty  vaults 

AVith  those  ascriptions  ring, 
Which  lift  the  soul,  while  it  exalts 

The  Christ,  of  Glory  King. 
And  well  might  walls,  so  taught,  cry  out, 

If  human  lips  were  dumb, 
And  aisles  spontaneous  swell  the  shout 

Until  the  Bridegroom  come. 

For  this,  how  oft  my  spirit  longs 

To  tread  thy  courts  !     How  stirs 
My  inmost  heart  to  join  thy  throngs 

Of  earnest  worshippers  ! 
For  this,  how  oft,  on  bended  knee, 

I  ask,  dear  Church,  to  see 
No  drought  on  others'  husbandry, 

But  much  of  dew  on  thee  ! 

Though  many  have  afflicted  thee, 

And  all  thy  ways  despise, 
And  turn,  with  gayer  company, 

To  where  new  shrines  arise, 
Here  let  thy  children  keep  their  feet, 

And  do  not  yet  despair 
That  they  who  scorn  thee  yet  may  meet 

Before  thy  shrine  in  prayer. 


76  CHRIST  CHURCH,   BOSTOX. 

Though  cheerless  to  the  eye  of  sense, 

A  land  that  none  pass  through, 
Eternal  is  thine  excellence, 

Which  shall  be  brought  to  view. 
And  on  thy  gates  the  stranger's  sou 

Shall,  in  God's  time,  record, 
<l  The  Zion  of  the  Holy  One, 

The  Citv  of  the  Lord!" 


CHRIST  CHURCH. 

Here,  brother,  let  us  pause  awhile, 

And  in  this  quiet  chancel  muse 
On  vanished  friends  who  thronged  each  aisle, 

And  crowded  these  deserted  pews ;  — 
To  whom  I  broke  the  bread  of  life, 

And  poured  the  mystic  cup  of  grace, 
And  hoped,  when  past  this  mortal  strife, 

To  share  with  them  our  Lord's  embrace. 

Full  are  the  tombs  o'er  which  we  tread ; 

And,  with  o'erwhelming  sense  of  awe, 
I  summon  back  the  holy  dead 

Whom  once  around  these  rails  I  saw. 
And  how  much  nearer,  at  this  hour, 

Their  unseen  presence  than  we  know ! 
This  is  a  thought  of  thrilling  power : 

O,  speak  with  reverent  voice,  —  speak  low ! 

77 


78  CHRIST   CHURCH. 

How  oft,  at  dead  of  night,  when  sleep 

In  heaviest  folds  wrapped  all  around, 
I  've  come,  my  vigil  here  to  keep, 

And  sighed  to  hear  some  human  sound ! 
Alone,  amid  the  scene  of  gloom, 

I've  watched  for  dawn,  and  felt  oppressed 
To  know,  that,  in  the  lofty  room, 

I  was  the  only  living  guest. 

The  ticking  of  yon  ancient  clock, 

That  marks  the  solemn  tread  of  Time, 
Against  my  heart-strings  seemed  to  knock ; 

And,  hark !  those  Christmas  bells  sublime ! 
So  have  they  rung  a  hundred  years, 

And  on  the  ears  that  heard  them  first 
The  chiming  of  the  starry  spheres 

With  their  enrapturing  tones  has  burst. 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVENING  PASTORAL. 


"  Te  shall  have  a  song  as  in  the  night  when  a  holy  solemnity  is 
kept."  —  Isaiah. 


My  own  dear  Church,  how  can  I  choose 

But  turn,  in  spirit,  back  to  thee, 
As  on  this  hallowed  night  I  lose 

Myself  in  pensive  revery  ? 
For  in  thy  courts  a  single  day 

'T  is  good,  if  but  in  thought,  to  dwell ; 
Nor  may  I  tear  my  heart  away 

From  all  that  it  has  loved  so  well. 

How  sweet  to  hear  at  eventide 
The  pealing  of  thy  silver  chime, 

In  tuneful  changes,  far  and  wide, 
Give  note  of  coming  Christmas-time  ! 

79 


80   CHRISTMAS  EVENING  PASTORAL. 

How  richly  through  the  wintry  sky 
It  floats  !  as  if  the  heavenly  train 

Sang,  "  Glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
And  peace  to  peaceful  men  !  "  again. 

While  thus  the  vocal  heavens  invite, 

And  bells  ring  out  in  angel-tone, 
To  Bethlehem  let  us  haste  to-night, 

And  see  the  wonders  there  made  known. 
Thy  radiant  courts  are  all  ablaze, 

And  brilliant  is  the  festive  scene, 
As  when  rose  on  the  prophet's  gaze 

Fair  Canaan,  dressed  in  living  green. 

The  wreaths  in  loftiest  arches  tied, 

The  boughs  in  each  deep  window  spread, 
The  festoons  swung  from  side  to  side, 

The  columns  twined  and  garlanded, 
The  leafy  cross,  which  venturous  arm 

Has  dared  to  hang  the  chancel  o'er, 
Give  all  the  shady  lodge  a  charm 

That  never  met  the  eye  before. 

Thus,  verdant  as  a  sylvan  tent, 

Thine  old  age  puts  its  greenness  on ; 

Thy  bowery  aisles  all  redolent 
With  goodliest  smell  of  Lebanon. 


CHRISTMAS  EVENING  PASTORAL.  81 

How  fresh  the  branches  stand,  and  thick ! 

With  what  a  dazzling  light,  and  clear, 
Like  Aaron's  golden  candlestick, 

Gleams  out  each  ancient  chandelier  ! 

And  he  who  looks  above  the  crowd 

May  almost  see,  in  vision,  swim 
Beneath  the  cornice,  veiled  in  cloud, 

The  mystic  shapes  of  cherubim  ; 
Now,  listening  to  the  grateful  strain, 

Each  in  his  angle  seems  to  rest, 
With  twain  unfolded  wings,  and  twain 

Spread  crosswise  on  his  raptured  breast. 

And  now  a  joyous  echo  rings, 

And  seems  the  whole  angelic  row, 
That  o'er  the  rood-loft  poise  their  wings, 

Their  loud,  uplifted  trumps  to  blow  ; 
And  quivering  now  through  wavy  trees, 

And  throbbing  breasts,  (with  thrilling  sound 
Of  solemn  pastoral  symphonies,) 

A  glory  truly  shines  around ;  — 

It  shines  on  robes  without  alloy, 

On  priestly  vestment,  pure  and  white, 

And  on  the  shepherd's  head  whose  joy 
It  is  to  watch  his  flock  by  night. 
F 


82   CHRISTMAS  EVENING  PASTORAL. 

It  brightest  shines  where  hearts  once  cold 
Are  kindling  with  the  truths  revealed, 

And,  like  the  faithful  swains  of  old, 

Beneath  their  gladdening  influence  yield. 

Thrice  blest,  who  thus  the  night  prolong, 

"Who  soar  on  each  inspiring  tune, 
And  emulate  the  shining  throng 

That  pass  away  to  heaven  too  soon ! 
Thrice  blest,  who,  as  the  years  roll  by, 

More  fondly  treasure  up  the  word, 
And  God  their  Saviour  glorify 

For  all  that  they  have  seen  and  heard ! 

Though  many  a  friend  is  dead  and  gone, 

Though  many  a  sainted  face  we  miss, 
Long  may  thy  tuneful  peal  ring  on, 

That  calls,  dear  Church,  to  feasts  like  this  ! 
For  whence  could  joy  and  comfort  flow 

To  aching  hearts  that  bleed  for  them, 
But  for  His  grace,  whose  reign  below 

Began  this  night  in  Bethlehem  ? 


ST.  JOHN  BAPTIST'S  DAY. 

« 

It  was  a  solemn  day  to  me, 

This  twenty-fourth  of  June, 
Eleven  years  ago ;  alas 

That  they  have  passed  so  soon ! 
And  often  as  it  comes  about, 

I  meditate  thereon, 
And  strive  to  follow,  as  I  may, 

Christ's  herald,  good  St.  John. 


It  was  a  solemn  place  to  me, 

That  sanctuary  old, 
Where  still  we,  after  sixscore  years, 

The  same  high  service  hold. 
And  still  'tis  good,  amid  the  change 

That  sweeps  o'er  all  beside, 
To  know  that,  while  these  walls  shall  stand, 

That  service  shall  abide. 


84  ST.  JOHN  BAPTISTS  DAY. 

How  many  who  were  present  then 

Sleep  in  their  tombs  below ! 
How  many  to  their  distant  posts 

Have  gone,  as  I  now  go ! 
Of  all  the  crowds  that  then  were  here, 

How  few  are  left  behind ! 
And  of  that  few,  how  fewer  still 

Who  call  that  scene  to  mind. 


To  me  it  is  as  yesterday  ; 

I  see  the  whole  proceed,  — 
The  bishop,  and  the  brethren  round, 

Who  came  to  bid  God-speed  ! 
The  holy  altar,  then  withdrawn 

Deep  in  its  own  recess, 
Ere  desk  and  pulpit  crowded  in, 

To  make  its  honours  less. 


O,  it  was  not  in  mockery 

That  then  I  offered  there, 
In  weakness,  fear,  and  trembling  tones, 

The  Institution-prayer. 
How  often,  as  I  've  paced  those  aisles 

At  sacred  hours  alone, 
Have  I  recited  o'er  that  prayer, 

To  God  is  truly  known ! 


ST.  JOHN  BAPTIST'S  DAY.  85 

How  little  thought  the  warden  gray 

That  aught  but  death  the  keys 
Surrendered  by  his  faithful  hand 

Should  ever  wrest  from  these,  — 
That  e'er  this  ancient  fold  should  count 

Their  broken  pledge  no  sin, 
Or  part,  for  trifling  cause,  the  bonds 

Of  God's  own  discipline  ! 

Dear  Church !  as  now  that  tender  charge 

I  solemnly  resign, 
Some  bleeding  hearts  will  testify 

The  fault  has  not  been  mine  ! 
For  who  could  hear  thy  heavenly  chime 

With  gladder  heart  than  I  ? 
Who  love  thee  with  a  fonder  love, 

Or  in  thy  service  die  ? 

God  raise  thee  up  some  faithful  man, 

More  prompt  to  follow  on, 
In  doctrine  and  in  holy  life, 

Christ's  herald,  good  St.  John ! 
Give  him  all  boldness  to  rebuke, 

And  skill  thy  griefs  to  cure, 
And,  for  his  heavenly  Master's  sake, 

All  patience  to  endure  ! 


BygMSgggraagflftWgXX^ 


1 


FROM  THE   ANTIQUE. 

"  Fons  Crucis,  Fons  Lucis." 
BY   THE  NA5IE    OF    CROSSE-WELLE. 

Welle  of  the  Crosse  !  would  I  might  be 
In  spirit,  as  in  name,  like  thee, 

"Whose  gentle  flow  from  Calvarie's  mount 

Covers  the  nations  like  a  sea, 
Drowns  in  its  depths  the  Egerian  fount, 
And  older  wave  of  Castalie. 


"Welle  of  the  Crosse  !  would  that  my  name 
Were  emblem  of  my  being's  aim, 
Upon  whose  face,  in  tranquil  rest, 

The  purest  hues  of  heaven  might  glow, 
And  through  its  deep,  transparent  breast, 
Fair  truth  be  seen  far  down  below. 


FROM  THE  ANTIQUE.  87 

Welle  of  the  Crosse  !  would  that  I  might 
Thy  glorie  with  thy  name  unite  : 

That,  cleansed  by  thee  from  every  stain, 

My  soul  might  gladly  count  but  loss 
All  worldly  thought,  all  worldly  gain,  ' 
To  bear  the  burden  of  the  Cross. 

O  yes,  for  thee,  Welle  of  the  Crosse  ! 
Fain  would  I  count  all  gain  but  loss ; 
For  thee  fain  would  I  live  and  die, 
Nor  covet  ease,  nor  toil  decline, 
So  I  all  sin  might  crucify, 

So  I  but  conquer  in  that  sign  ! a 

a  In  hoc  simo  vinces.  —  Constantine's  Vision. 


TO  MY  FATHER. 

My  father,  I  recall  the  dream 

Of  childish  joy  and  wonder, 
When  thou  wast  young  as  I  now  seem, 

Say,  thirty-three,  or  under ; 
When  on  thy  temples,  as  on  mine, 

Time  just  began  to  sprinkle 
His  first  gray  hairs,  and  traced  the  sign 

Of  many  a  coming  wrinkle. 

I  recognize  thy  voice's  tone 

As  to  myself  I  'm  talking ; 
And  this  firm  tread,  how  like  thine  own, 

In  thought,  the  study  walking  ! 
As,  musing,  to  and  fro  I  pass, 

A  glance  across  my  shoulder 
Would  bring  thine  image  in  the  glass, 

Were  it  a  trifle  older. 


TO  MY  FATHER.  89 

My  father,  proud  am  I  to  bear 

Thy  face,  thy  form,  thy  stature, 
But  happier  far  might  I  but  share 

More  of  thy  better  nature,  — 
Thy  patient  progress  after  good, 

All  obstacles  disdaining, 
Thy  courage,  faith,  and  fortitude, 

And  spirit  uncomplaining. 

Then  for  the  day  that  I  was  born 

Well  might  I  joy,  and  borrow 
No  longer  of  the  coming  morn 

Its  trouble  or  its  sorrow  ; 
Content  I  'd  be  to  take  my  chance 

In  either  world,  possessing 
For  my  complete  inheritance 

Thy  virtues  and  thy  blessing ! 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

My  mother  !  many  a  burning  word 

Would  not  suffice  the  love  to  tell 
With  which  my  inmost  soul  is  stirred, 

As  thoughts  of  thee  my  bosom  swell : 
But  better  I  should  ill  express 

The  passion  thus,  than  leave  untold 
The  glow  of  filial  tenderness 

Which  never  in  my  heart  grows  cold. 

Oft,  as  I  muse  o'er  all  the  wrong, 

The  silent  grief,  the  secret  pain, 
My  froward  youth  has  caused,  I  long 

To  live  my  childhood  o'er  agaiu  ; 
And  yet  they  were  not  all  in  vain, 

The  lessons  which  thy  love  then  taught ; 
Nor  always  has  it  dormant  lain, 

The  fire  from  thy  example  caught 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


01 


And  now,  as  feelings  all  divine 

With  deepest  power  my  spirit  touch, 
I  feel  as  if  some  prayer  of  thine, 

My  mother  !  were  availing  much. 
And  thus  availing,  more  and  more, 

O,  be  it  thine,  in  bliss,  to  see 
The  hopes  with  which  thy  heart  runs  o'er, 

In  fondest  hour,  fulfilled  in  me  ! 


EPITHAL'AMIUM. 

Methixks  those  joyous  bells  will  ring 

In  my  rapt  ear  with  holiest  power, 
When  I  within  that  shrine  shall  bring 

The  offering  of  my  nuptial  hour ; 
And  I  shall  feel  the  debt  I  owe 

For  all  the  past  of  hope  and  love, 
Dear  Church,  that  gives  so  much  below, 

In  pledge  of  more  reserved  above  ! 

Though  brief  the  time  in  service  spent, 

How  long  and  dear  its  ties  shall  be  ! 
As  precious  and  as  permanent 

As  numbers  of  eternity  : 
For  though  no  bridal  bond  be  theirs 

TVTio  in  the  resurrection  rise, 
Yet  from  their  graves  all  holy  pairs 

Pass  to  their  union  in  the  skies. 

92 


EPITHALAMIUM.  93 

0,  may  that  -worthiness  be  mine, 

To  walk  hereafter  by  her  side 
O'er  whom  I  joy,  in  rites  divine, 

As  joys  the  bridegroom  o'er  the  bride. 
Together  may  we  join  the  throng 

Who  follow  at  their  Saviour's  call, 
And  celebrate  in  mystic  song 

The  heavenly  marriage  festival ! 


a£® 


A  DAUGHTER'S  PORTION. 

0  God,  who  on  our  household 
Thus  far  hast  fondly  smiled, 

1  thank  thee  for  thy  choicest  boon,  - 

My  precious,  only  child. 
And  pray  thee  that  the  favour 

Which  has  so  richly  blest 
Her  sunny  days  of  infancy, 

May  shine  on  all  the  rest. 

I  have  not  asked  for  beauty, 

Fair  cheek,  or  golden  tress ; 
Though  all  that  is  within  me  melts 

At  woman's  loveliness. 
I  have  not  asked  for  riches, 

Xor  even  wealth  of  mind  ; 
Though  doting  on  intelligence, 

Pure,  lofty,  and  refined  : 

94 


A  DAUGHTER'S  PORTION.  95 

Those  better  gifts  I  covet, 

Which  thou  dost  bid  us  seek,  — 
A  soul  serene,  affectionate, 

And  resolute,  yet  meek. 
The  meetness  of  the  children 

"Who  shared  our  Lord's  caress, 
And  whose  surpassing  excellence 

Is  early  holiness. 

O,  might  she  thus  resemble 

That  late  departed  saint, 
Who,  worthy  of  Madonna's  name, 

I  may  not  dare  to  paint ! 
Or  catch  the  falling  glories 

Throned  on  that  aged  brow, 
Which,  in  the  multitude  of  peace, 

Has  passed  from  us  but  now ! 

Fain  would  I  ask,  as  o'er  me 

That  raptured  image  swims, 
All  ready  with  the  seraph  choirs 

To  join  the  heavenly  hymns, 
That  her  unearthly  comforts, 

And  looks,  divinely  mild, 
Might,  by  some  secret  sympathy, 

Inspire  my  gracious  child. 


96 


A  DAUGHTERS  PORTION. 


"While  thus,  dear  Lord,  my  musings 

Have  blent,  in  tender  ties, 
The  child,  and  aged  childlike  friend, 

Whom  tears  shall  canonize, 
May  the  hope  that  both  are  living, 

And  rejoicing  in  thy  smile, 
Cheer  the  lonely  dwelling-places 

Which  each  has  left  awhile. 


TO  . 

Fair  child  !  thou  fillest  mine  eye  with  tears, 

For  thou  carriest  back  my  mind 
To  the  sinless  days  which  the  flight  of  years 

Has  left  so  far  behind  ; 
And  I  search  my  shrinking  self  to  know 

How  the  spirit,  so  darkened  now, 
Can  be  purged  of  its  manhood's  guilt  and  woe, 

And  be  pure  once  more  as  thou. 


Again,  thou  carriest  on  my  thought 

To  the  vision  of  things  before, 
When  the  last  great  battle  with  sin  is  fought, 

And  the  struggle  of  death  is  o'er ; 
For  in  vain  our  Heaven  we  hope  to  see, 

And  our  Saviour  undefiled, 
Till  we  learn  His  lesson  of  such  as  thee, 

And  become  like  a  little  child  ! 

G  97 


TO   MY   SISTER. 

How  like,  alas  !  in  their  estate 

Are  home  and  heart !  the  one 
Is  left  unto  thee  desolate, 

Its  thousand  ties  undone  ; 
The  other,  as  the  winds  go  by, 

Sore  charged  with  storm  and  rain, 
Hear  in  their  sound  the  dismal  cry, 

"  "When  shall  we  meet  again  ?  " 

But  hush,  fond  heart !  there  is  a  home 

Not  made  by  hand  of  clay, 
Where  change  and  chance  shall  never  come, 

In  heaven's  eternal  day. 
For  that  loved  rest  thyself  prepare 

By  deeds  of  holy  strain, 
Till,  in  the  many  mansions  there, 

We  meet,  nor  part  again. 


LONELINESS. 


TO   G.   W.   D. 


I  miss  thee  at  the  morning  tide, 

The  glorious  hour  of  prime  ; 
I  miss  thee  more  when  day  has  died, 

At  blessed  evening-time. 
As  slide  the  aching  hours  away, 

Still  art  thou  unforgot ; 
Sleeping  or  waking,  night  and  day, 

When  do  I  miss  thee  not  ? 


How  can  I  pass  that  gladsome  door, 

Where  every  favourite  room 
Thy  presence  made  so  bright  before 

Is  loneliness  and  gloom  ? 
Each  place  where  most  thou  lov'dst  to  be, 

Thy  home,  thy  house  of  prayer, 
Seem  yearning  for  thy  company  : 

I  miss  thee  everywhere. 

99 


TO   A  FRIEND 

WHO  SENT  ME   A   WATCH-CASE   AND  A   THERMOJ1ETEK. 

How  much,  O  Time  !  at  every  beat 

My  faithful  watch  has  said 
Of  thine  unseen  yet  quick  retreat, 

Thy  never-ceasing  tread ! 
And  friends  have  given  me,  day  by  day, 

A  clearer  power  to  see 
How  fast  thy  circles  wear  away 

Into  Eternity. 


But  howsoever  times  may  range, 

Let  not  this  token  be 
A  type  of  like  mercurial  change 

Between  my  friends  and  me. 
Howe'er  the  quickened  silver  mount, 

Or  shrink  into  the  ball, 
Be  our  dilated  hearts  unwont 

To  either  rise  or  fall. 
100 


THE  NAME   OF  MARY. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  BIBLE. 

Who  sees,  where  in  the  sacred  leaves 

The  name  of  some  dear  friend 
Its  tribute  at  God's  hand  receives, 

And  saintliest  lips  commend, 
And  prays  not  that  the  Book  may  bear 

For  her  that  witness  true ; 
That  all  the  hallowed  name  who  share 

May  be  like-minded  too  ? 


Wouldst  have  thy  name  in  heaven's  own  page, 

With  heaven's  own  colours  writ  ? 
Learn,  in  thy  green,  unsaddened  age, 

At  Jesus'  feet  to  sit ; 
By  faith  unfeigned,  and  holy  love, 

And  penitential  prayer, 
'T  is  graven  in  the  Book  above, 

And  kept  unfading  there. 
101 


TO   *  *  *  *. 

Lady  !  to  whom  belong 

The  will  and  power  to  roll 
The  tide  of  music  and  of  song 

That  overflow  the  soul, 
The  stream  has  passed  away, 

But  left  a  glittering  store, 
Deposited  in  rich  array 

On  memory's  silent  shore,  — 


A  strand  of  precious  things, 

Where  in  confusion  lie 
The  wrecks  of  high  imaginings 

And  thoughts  that  cannot  die. 
0  for  that  voice  alone, 

Whose  full,  refreshing  flow 
Could  on  the  troubled  soul  its  own 

Serenity  bestow ! 


TO  *  *  *  * 


103 


Why  should  those  streams  be  mute 

Which  brighten  as  they  roll, 
Nor  in  their  liquid  lapse  pollute, 

But  beautify  the  soul  ? 
O,  tranquillize,  refine 

The  heart,  till  it  shall  be, 
As  in  its  primal  day,  divine, 

And  full  of  Deity ! 


W^ 


P-    -    -    -•    ••-   r.   :.    i   :.    -   z    .-.   x.   i   r    •    r  7    127    r   x  x  -•    1    z    ■  xr  NA 

STANZAS, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  AGED   SERVANT  OF  GOD. 

"Fortunate  Senex." 

I  WAS  in  spirit  with  the  crowd 

Who  stood  around  thy  bier, 
When  grief,  though  deep,  was  yet  not  loud, 

As  each  in  turn  drew  near, 
And,  mutely  bending,  o'er  and  o'er 

Fond  kindred  lips  were  pressed 
Upon  thy  placid  brow,  before 

They  laid  thee  to  thy  rest. 

No  stain  upon  thy  clear  renown, 

Descended  from  the  brave, 
Brought  thy  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  down, 

Tried  veteran  !  to  the  grave ; 
We  saw  thee  hastening,  calm  and  sage, 

On  to  thy  perfect  day, 
And,  in  thy  green  and  good  old  age, 

Serenely  fade  away. 

104 


STANZAS.  105 

Peace  to  thy  patriarchal  dust ! 

From  yon  old  solemn  shrine 
Breaks  forth  a  tone  of  loftiest  trust 

That  better  things  are  thine ; 
Thy  light  shone  ever  there  to  bless, 

And  on  thy  hoary  head, 
Found  in  the  way  of  righteousness, 

A  crown  of  glory  shed. 

Nursed  in  her  aisles,  and  truly  taught 

By  her  to  live  and  die, 
Our  grief  finds  refuge  in  the  thought 

That  there  thou  still  art  nigh ; 
It  treasures  there  a  precious  store 

For  sweet  and  soothing  calm, 
To  read  thy  favourite  prayers,  and  pour 

The  same  victorious  psalm. 

Thus  shall  thy  memory  be  a  spell 

Of  strong  but  silent  power, 
Within  the  church  thou  lov'dst  so  well, 

And  round  thy  household  bower ; 
Yea,  every  spot  is  sanctified, 

Amid  this  vale  of  tears, 
Where  thou,  for  heaven,  hast  laid  aside 

The  burden  of  thy  years. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  D.  W. 

"  Heu !   Quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  memi- 
nisse." 

Once  how  my  exiled  schoolboy  heart 

Would  with  impatience  yearn 
For  those  dear  vernal  holidays 

When  I  might  homeward  turn  ! 
And,  haven  where  I  would  be  then, 

How  fondly  would  I  say, 
Thou  wert  too  fair  to  look  upon, 

Save  on  such  holiday !  * 

And  still  thy  bowers  are  beautiful, 

Thy  walks  are  fair  to  see, 
But  time  and  troublous  thoughts  have  worked 

A  dreary  change  in  me  ; 

a  "  When  I  sat  last  on  this  primrose  bank,  and  looked  down 
these  meadows,  I  thought  of  them  as  Charles  the  Emperor  did 
of  the  city  of  Florence,  —  that  they  were    too   pleasant  to  be 
looked  on,  but  only  on  holidays."  —  Walton. 
106 


IN  MEMORY  OF  D.    W.  107 

And  year  by  year  thy  loveliness 

Has  on  my  sense  grown  dim, 
Till  thou  hast  scarce  a  charm  unbroke, 

Since  thou  art  spoiled  of  Mm. 

A  grief  for  which  all  words  are  weak 

Has  pierced  me  to  the  quick, 
Nor  dare  I  trust  myself  to  speak 

The  thoughts  that  crowd  so  thick ; 
I  yield  me  to  the  consciousness 

Which  death  and  sorrow  bring, 
That  all  of  earth  we  dote  upon 

Hath  no  continuing. 


TO  MY  NAMESAKE, 

ON   HIS   BAPTISM. 
"  Formose  Puer." 

Childe  William,  I  have  little  skill, 

But  much  of  heart  and  hope, 
To  clear  from  every  sign  of  ill 

Thy  happy  horoscope. 
The  occult  gift  is  hid  from  me, 

Nor  may  my  art  divine 
Thy  life's  unfolded  destiny 

From  this  sweet  palm  of  thine. 

But  in  thy  mother's  tender  love, 
Thy  father's  anxious  care, 

And,  more,  the  answer  from  above 
To  our  baptismal  prayer,  — 

108 


TO  MY  NAMESAKE.  109 

In  these  a  hallowed  influence  dwells, 

A  charm  that 's  heavenlier  fai 
Than  might  of  planetary  spells, 

Or  culminating  star. 

The  power  of  holiest  rites,  fair  boy, 

The  tears  that  oft  will  wet 
Thy  forehead  from  excess  of  joy,  — 

These  be  thy  amulet ! 
On  these  auspicious  prospects  rest, 

These  figure  out  thy  fate ; 
How  can  they  fail  to  make  thee  blest,  — 

Blest,  if  not  fortunate  ? 

A  childless  man,  well  may  I  deem 

Thy  name  my  highest  pride, 
Rich  in  thy  parents'  dear  esteem, 

Though  poor  in  all  beside ; 
Well  may  my  heart  with  gladness  ache, 

Flower  of  a  noble  stem, 
If  one  will  love  thee  for  my  sake, 

As  I  have  honoured  them. 


TO   A  FRIEND, 

EMBARKING  IN  A    SHIP  NAMED  "  THE  HEBER." 

All  gentle  gales, 
Serene  and  smiling  skies,  thy  course  attend  ; 
The  winds  of  God  and  goodness  fill  thy  sails, 

My  faithful  friend. 

And  if  the  trust 
Be  not  in  vain,  that  Heaven  does  still  assign 
Our  guardians  from  the  spirits  of  the  just, 

Be  Heber's  thine ! 


And  when  't  is  o'er, 
The  stormy  passage  of  our  life,  may  we 
Meet  in  that  world  where  he  has  gone  before, 

Without  a  sea. 
no 


TO  MY   GODSON, 

WILLIAM    CROSWELL    DOAXE. 

It  seems,  dear  boy,  but  yesterday, 

Since  to  the  font  we  came, 
A  happy  and  delighted  throng, 

To  answer  in  thy  name  : 
And  I,  thy  father's  chosen  friend, 

Joyed  o'er  thy  father's  son, 
To  hear  the  priestly  blessing  blend 

Our  names,  allied  in  one. 

But  ah !  how  cloud  has  followed  cloud  ! 

How  many  a  thrilling  scene, 
What  trials  and  what  triumphs,  crowd 

The  narrow  space  between  ! 
And  we  are  sundered  far  and  wide, 

Who  framed  in  happier  hour 
The  ties  which  time  shall  not  divide, 

Nor  death  shall  overpower, 
in 


112  TO  MY  GODSON. 

Let  not  thine  eye  to  me  be  strange, 

Whose  smile  has  been  so  sweet, 
And  I  can  bear  what  other  change 

Awaits  us  ere  we  meet. 
And  sure  the  love  which  thus  begun 

Must  bind  us  to  the  end, 
And  never  can  thy  father's  son 

Forget  thy  father's  friend. 


LAMENT. 

ON   THE  DEATH  OF  A  PASTOR. 

My  brother,  I  have  read 
Of  holy  men,  in  Christ  who  fell  asleep, 
For  whom  no  bitter  tears  of  woe  were  shed,  — 

I  could  not  weep  ! 

And  thou  thyself  art  one, 
O  man  of  loves,  and  truth  without  alloy! 
The  Master  calleth,  and,  thy  work  well  done, 

Enter  thy  joy ! 

To  such  as  thee  belong 
The  harmonies  in  which  all  heaven  unite, 
To  share  the  inexpressive  nuptial  song, 

And  walk  in  white  ! 


114     ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A   PASTOR. 

But  O  thy  Church !  thy  home  ! 
Thy  widowed  home  !  —  who  shall  forbid  to  grieve  ? 
How  may  they  bear  the  desolating  gloom 

Such  partings  leave  V 

Great  Shepherd  of  the  flock  ! 
E'en  Thou,  whose  life  was  given  for  the  sheep, 
Sustain  them  in  the  overwhelming  shock, 

And  safely  keep ! 


^iftP 


^ 


TO  THE 
REV.  THOMAS  WINTHROP  COIT,  D.  D. 

ON  HIS  ACCEPTANCE  OF  A  POST  OF  DUTY  IN  THE  WEST. 

With  hope  and  courage  unrepressed, 

Go,  follow  where  the  orb  of  day 
And  Empire's  Star,  both  tending  west, 

Have  pointed  out  thy  brightening  way ; 
And  from  our  dwellings  by  the  sea, 

Beyond  the  mountain  barriers  bear 
The  bonds  which  sacred  sympathy 

Hath  sanctified  by  many  a  prayer. 

And  when  thy  steps  are  safely  led 
By  mighty  marge  of  rivers  wide, 

Which,  like  an  earth-born  giant,  spread a 
Their  thirsty  arms  on  every  side, 


And  Trent,  like  an  earth-born  giant,  spreads 
His  thirsty  arms  along  th'  indented  meads." 

Milton,  Vacation  Exercise. 
115 


116     TO  REV.  THOMAS  W.  COTT,  D.  D. 


O,  let  their  waters,  as  they  glide 
Resistless  on,  thine  emblem  be,  — 

A  stream  of  many  thousand  tides 
Against  the  Truth's  great  enemy. 


ELEGIAC. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  B.  D.  WTNSLOW. 

In  silence  I  have  wept  for  thee,  and  with  a  grief 
sincere, 

And  conscious,  dearest  Benjamin,  that  love  was  in 
arrear, 

But  shrinking  still,  lest  in  thy  praise  I  should  my- 
self commend, 

So  high  in  merit  thou,  and  I  so  very  dear  a  friend. 

Else  I  had  earlier  witness  borne,  how,  watching  by 

thy  side, 
When  thou  the  hour  of  thy  release  didst  patiently 

abide, 
At  midnight,  as  the  taper's  light  began  like  thee  to 

wane, 
Thou  pouredst  in  my  ravished  ear  thy  last  and 

swan-like  strain. 

117 


118  ELEGIAC. 

Like  Baruch,  when  the  prophet's  lips  glowed  with 
unearthly  fires, 

I  noted  down  the  soothing  words  which  peace  divine 
inspires, 

Preserving  since,  with  hallowed  care,  thy  oft-repeat- 
ed lay, 

So  soon  to  prove  its  moral  true,  — "  This,  too, 
shall  pass  away !  " 

We  prayed  and  parted,  when  the  dawn  began  too 

soon  to  break, 
And  dear  the  book  thou  gavest  me,  to  cherish  for 

thy  sake, 
And  dearer  still  the  pencilled  words,  the  last  I  saw 

thee  write, 
In  token  of  the  Master's  grace,  who  giveth  songs 

by  night ! 

The  vows  thy  youth  had  registered,  ere  yet  it  lost 

its  dew, 
Here,  in  my  life's  meridian  day,  I  solemnly  renew ; 
And  when,  though  following  far  behind,  I  've  run 

my  weary  race, 
May  I,  with  thee,  in  better  worlds,  share  in  our 

Lord's  embrace. 


^^fY¥^tT¥±x¥xVYVVVxYvvv  yy  yyyy^ 


BISHOP  WHITE. 

"  Clarum  et  venerabile  nomen." 

It  was  a  consecrated  place, 

And  thought  still  lingers  there, 
Where  first  I  saw  thee  face  to  face, 

And  heard  thy  voice  in  prayer  ; 
Though  thousands  thronged  each  long-drawn  aisle, 

I  dwelt  upon  thy  mien, 
As  though  alone  it  filled  the  pile, 

So  saintly  and  serene. 

And  there,  arrayed  on  either  hand, 

A  goodly  sight  to  see, 
Rose  up  our  apostolic  band, 

A  glorious  company. 
And  still  I  deem  that  hour  most  blest 

When  round  the  shrine  they  stood, 
With  thee,  the  father  of  the  rest, 

A  holy  brotherhood. 


120  BISHOP    WHITE. 

Age  had  forborne  thy  frame  to  bow ; 

Thine  eye,  without  eclipse, 
Seemed  ready,  like  thy  reverend  brow, 

For  heaven's  apocalypse  ; 
And  well  the  thought  that  o'er  thee  stole 

Might  be  of  triumph  high, 
Like  those  which  swelled  the  patriarch's  soul 

When  he  desired  to  die. 

For  lo !  the  vine  thy  hand  did  plant 

Extends  its  grateful  shade, 
Where  every  tired  inhabitant 

May  sit,  nor  be  afraid  ; 
Its  fair  succession  spreads  apace, 

Till  scarce  the  land  has  room, 
Foretold,  like  Banquo's  kingly  race, 

To  stretch  till  crack  of  doom. 

O,  may  thy  light,  which  lingers  yet, 

Long  to  our  wishes  fond, 
Give  promise,  by  its  glorious  set, 

Of  better  things  beyond : 
A  happy  fate,  old  man,  be  thine, 

Deserving  of  thy  fame, 
And  robes  reserved  in  worlds  divine, 

As  pure  as  thine  own  name  ! 


BISHOP   GRISWOLD'S  MEMORIAL. 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HIS  DEATH,  FEBRUARY  15, 1844. 

"  As  Elisha  witnessed  the  translation  of  Elijah,  so  we  could  hard- 
ly hope  anything  better  for  his  successor  than  that  the  mantle  of 
this  our  father  in  Israel  might  rest  upon  him."  —  W.  C. 

"  I  was  present,  with  several  of  the  clergy,  about  ten  minutes 
after  his  death,  which,  as  you  know,  took  place  in  Bishop  East- 
burn's  study.  It  was  a  scene  long  to  be  remembered.  There  lay 
the  good  old  man,  extended  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  more  ma- 
jestic and  commanding  of  presence  in  death  than  I  had  ever 
beheld  him  in  life.  His  silver  hairs  spread  a  kind  of  halo  round 
his  head,  and,  his  blue  cloak  wrapped  gracefully  round  his  limbs, 
with  his  arms  crossed  on  his  bosom,  he  looked  like  a  Christian 
c  warrior  taking  his  rest.'  "  —  Letter  from  Rev.  J.  L.  "Watson. 

The  funeral  year  has  through  its  circle  run, 

And  Memory's  spells  the  solemn  scene  renew, 
When,  like  Elijah,  thy  good  mission  done, 
Leaving  thy  mantle  with  thy  chosen  one,1 
Thy  sainted  spirit  to  its  source  withdrew ; 

a  His  successor. 
121 


122  BISHOP    GRISW  OLD'S  MEMORIAL. 

And  Reverence  still,  in  many  a  prophet's  son, 

To  Bethel  comes,  and  stands  afar  to  view. 
And  prays  that  he  on  whom  thy  titles  rest 
May  be  both  with  thy  robe  and  with  thy  spirit  blest. 


Methinks  I  see  thee,  as  I  oft  have  seen 
In  other  days,  so  chastened  and  resigned, 

Serving  the  Lord,  as  with  a  prophet's  mien, 
Or  Paul's,  in  all  humility  of  mind. 

I  see  thy  trials  on  thy  faded  cheek, 

But  thine  endurance  in  thy  brow  serene, 

Thy  look  elate,  but  yet  subdued  and  meek, 
Thy  seraph  smile,  and  sweet  unconscious  air 
That  threw  a  glory  round  thine  apostolic  chair. 


Long  had  I  loved  thee  with  a  filial  heart. 

And   mourn   thee   with  a  deep   and   sorrowing 
love,  — 
Thrice  happy,  might  I  hope  to  bear  a  part 

In  the  same  mansions  of  the  house  above. 
May  I  be  with  thee,  where  thy  lot  shall  be, 

And  grow  more  like  thee,  in  thy  simple  guise, 
Thy  unaffected  truth's  sincerity. 

And  all  that  made  so  lovely  in  our  eyes 

The  quiet,  childlike  heart,  which  God  doth  highly 
prize. 


BISHOP    GRISWOLUS  MEMORIAL.  123 

Father,  whose  life  was  thus  devoid  of  pride, 

Thus  lowly  wise,  on  winning  souls  intent, 
Let  not  thy  ransomed  spirit  now  be  tried, 
Among  the  myriads  of  the  glorified, 

By  any  pledge  of  love  on  thee  misspent. 

Thou  wouldst  not  ask  a  costly  monument, 
Nor  joy  to  see  the  storied  rock  assume 

Thy  living  shape  ;  or  sculptured  figures,  bent 
In  mimic  sorrow  o  'er  a  garnished  tomb, 
Enshrine  thy  place  of  rest  amid  the  minster's  gloom. 

But  rather,  as  on  earth  thou  oft  hast  prayed, 

Wouldst  pray,  that  all  who  loved  thee,  far  or 
nigh,  — 
Priest,  Levite,  elder,  matron,  youth,  and  maid, 
On  whom  thy  hands  in  solemn  rites  were  laid,  — 

Might  grow  in  every  grace  as  years  went  by, 
And,  stirring  up  the  gift  through  thee  conveyed, 

Have  their  blest  record  with  thine  own  on  high ; 
And,  walking  in  the  steps  which  thou  hast  trod, 
Be  thy  memorial  dear,  alike  to  man  and  God. 


- 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  CHAMBER  WHERE  BISHOP  HOBART 
DIED,  ON  THE   TENTH   ANNIVERSARY. 

Our  house,  whereon  dark  clouds  have  lowered 

Is  once  more  desolate, 
And  hushed  the  solemn  chamber  where 

The  good  man  met  his  fate. 
Pass  lightly  up  the  echoing  stairs, 

And  look  in  silence  round, 
And  take  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet, 

For  this  is  holy  ground. 

Here  stood,  erewhile,  his  dying  couch, 

Against  this  crimsoned  wall, 
Where,  quivering  through  the  locust-leaves, 

The  setting  sunbeams  fall. 
Here  last  he  saw  yon  glorious  orb, 

Like  his,  descending  low, 
And  through  the  casement  pour,  as  now, 

That  rich  autumnal  glow. 


LINES.  125 

But  dwell  not  on  the  painful  scene, 

Nor,  rapt  in  vision,  muse, 
Till  in  the  sadness  of  the  past 

The  present  good  we  lose. 
No  sun  could  make  more  golden  set, 

Nor  leave  a  track  more  bright, 
Than  his,  whose  radiant  memory  still 

Fills  all  our  courts  with  li^ht. 


Look  earthward  forth,  and  see,  fast  by 

The  oracle  of  God, 
And  mark  the  well-worn  churchyard  path, 

The  last  his  footsteps  trod. 
Pass  through  the  Gothic  porch,  and  view 

The  chancel's  choicest  trust, 
Where  all  but  speaks,  in  lifelike  grace, 

His  monumental  bust. 


The  pilgrim  at  Iona's  shrine 

Forgets  his  journey's  toil, 
As  faith  rekindles  in  his  breast 

On  that  inspiring  soil ; 
And  those  who  trace  in  Heber's  steps 

Carnatic  wood  and  wave, 
A  portion  of  his  spirit  seek 

By  their  apostle's  grave. 


126  LINES. 

And  here  our  prophet's  sons  shall  oft 

Their  father's  ear  recall, 
And  here  on  each  successor's  head 

His  reverend  mantle  fall. 
•'  Here  may  they  hope  to  fill  the  breach, 

Like  him  the  plague  to  stay, 
While  in  his  thrilling  tones  they  preach, 

And  with  his  fervour  pray." 

Thus,  Auburn,  shall  thy  hallowed  haunts 

Be  sought  from  age  to  age, 
And  hither  sons  of  holy  Church 

Make  pious  pilgrimage. 
And  though  some  bitter  memories 

Must  dash  the  past  with  pain, 
Sweet  village,  thou  shalt  ever  be 

The  loveliest  of  the  plain  ! 


MEMORIAL 


OF  MY  BELOVED  FRIEND  AND  PREDECESSOR,  THE  REV. 
WILLIAM  LUCAS. 


Three  years  ago,  dear  friend,  to-day, 
Thy  chastened  spirit  passed  away ; 

And,  musing  in  the  room, 
The  last  thy  earthly  footsteps  trod, 
In  walk,  like  Enoch,  close  with  God, 

Light  kindles  up  the  gloom. 

In  all  thy  steps  thus  may  I  tread, 
And  feed  the  flock  as  thou  hast  fed, 

And  make  my  lot  my  choice, 
Till,  reaping  where  thou  well  hast  sown, 
At  harvest  home,  before  the  throne, 

I  may  with  thee  rejoice  ! 

127 


AD   AMICUM. 

Friend  of  my  early  youth, 

Whom  each  succeeding  year, 
Disclosing  depths  of  love  and  truth, 

Has  made  to  me  more  dear : 
The  spell,  at  length,  is  burst 

That  kept  me  dumb  so  long, 
And  at  my  heart,  as  at  the  first, 

Old  friendship's  pulse  is  strong. 

The  scales  fall  from  our  eyes, 

Nor  darkly  now  we  see 
How  youngest  hearts  may  realize 

That  life  is  vanity. 
How  valueless  now  seem 

Its  passing  smiles  and  tears  ! 
Like  dreams  remembered  in  a  dream 

Its  imagery  appears. 

128 


AD  AMICUM.  129 

O,  lovely  was  the  sight, 

When  last  I  saw  thy  son, 
And  hailed  the  promise  with  delight 

With  which  his  youth  begun. 
It  brought  to  mind  the  days 

Of  our  own  golden  age, 
Ere  yet  we  took  the  separate  ways 

Of  manhood's  pilgrimage. 

As  in  that  fairy-land 

Through  which  we  trod  when  boys, 
Pursuing  ever,  hand  in  hand, 

Our  studies  and  our  joys, 
We  saw  him  pressing  o'er 

The  selfsame  pleasant  road, 
Where  we  had  passed  so  long  before, 

To  learning's  high  abode. 

But  ah  !  how  soon  the  train 

Of  visions  melts  like  foam  ! 
We  search  for  that  sweet  face  in  vain 

In  thy  afflicted  home. 
How  hast  thou  borne  the  blow 

By  which  the  wreck  was  made  ? 
And  tears  that  in  such  anguish  flow, 

How  shall  their  course  be  stayed  ? 


130  AD  AMICUM. 

I,  that  did  once  rejoice 

To  be  the  bridegroom's  friend, 
Till  I  can  cheer  thee  with  my  voice, 

Some  soothing  strain  would  send. 
But  who  but  God  can  dry 

The  fountains  of  thy  grief? 
And  when  the  merry-hearted  sigh, 

Who  else  can  give  relief? 


O,  in  this  dark  eclipse, 

Though  all  be  gloom  beneath, 
Methinks  I  hear  some  angel  lips 

These  words  of  comfort  breathe  : 
"  Believers,  doubt  not  this,  — 

All  that  God  takes,  and  more, 
In  that  approaching  world  of  bliss 

He  will,  through  Christ,  restore. 


6^>i# 


LLfciXUJ-  '  "  '■".■JJJJJJJLiiJJSBt 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COPY  OF  MILTON'S  POEMS, 

THE  GIFT  OF  A  FRIEND  WHO  DIED   AT  SEA. 

Thy  cherished  gift,  departed  friend, 

With  trembling  I  unfold, 
And  fondly  gaze  upon  its  lids, 

In  crimson  wrought,  and  gold. 
I  open  to  its  dirge-like  strain 

On  one  who  died  at  sea ; 
And  as  I  read  of  Lycidas, 

I  think,  the  while,  of  thee. 

Thy  languid  spirit  sought  in  vain 

The  beautiful  Azores, 
But,  ere  it  reached  the  middle  main, 

Was  rapt  to  happier  shores. 
As  in  a  dream-like,  halcyon  calm, 

It  entered  on  its  rest, 
Amid  the  groves  of  Paradise, 

And  islands  of  the  blest. 

131 


132  STAXZAS. 

Kind  friends  afar,  at  thy  behest, 

Had  fitted  bower  and  hall 
To  entertain  their  kindred  guest 

In  ever  green  Fayal. 
In  greener  bowers  thy  bed  is  made, 

And  sounder  is  thy  sleep, 
Than  ever  life  had  known,  among 

The  chambers  of  the  deep. 

No  mark  along  the  waste  may  tell 

The  place  of  thy  repose  ; 
Yet  there  is  One  who  loved  thee  well, 

And  loved  by  thee,  who  knows. 
And  though  now  sunk,  like  Lycidas, 

Beneath  the  watery  floor, 
Yet  His  great  might  that  walked  the  waves 

Shall  thy  dear  form  restore. 

Though  years  must  first  pass  by,  no  time 

His  purpose  shall  derange. 
And  in  his  guardianship  thy  soul 

Shall  suffer  no  sea  change. 
And  when  the  depths  give  back  their  charge, 

O,  may  our  welcome  be 
"With  thine,  among  Christ's  ransomed  throngs, 

Where  there  is  no  more  sea  ! 


FRAGMENT. 


Trust  me,  Cousin  Bess, 
Full  many  a  day  my  memory  has  played 
The  creditor  with  me  on  your  account, 
And  made  me  shame  to  think  that  I  should  owe 
So  long  the  debt  of  kindness.     But  in  truth, 
Like  Christian  on  his  pilgrimage,  I  bear 
So  heavy  a  pack  of  business,  that  albeit 
I  toil  on  mainly  in  one  twelve  hours'  race, 
Time  leaves  me  distanced.     Loath  indeed  were  I 
That  for  a  moment  you  should  lay  to  me 
Unkind  neglect.     Mine,  cousin,  is  a  heart 
That  smokes  not,  yet  methinks  there  should  be 

some 
Who  know  how  warm  it  beats.     I'm  no   sworn 

friend 
Of  half  an  hour,  as  apt  to  leave  as  love. 

133 


134  FRAG  ME  XT. 

Mine  are  no  mushroom  feelings,  that  spring  up 

At  once,  without  a  seed,  and  take  no  root, 

Wisely  distrusted.     In  a  narrow  sphere, 

The  little  circle  of  domestic  life, 

I  would  be  known  and  loved.     The  world  beyond 

Is  not  for  me.     And,  Bessy,  sure  I  think 

That  you  should  know  me  well,  for  you  and  I 

Grew  up  together;  and  when  we  look  back 

Upon  old  times,  our  recollections  paint 

The  same  familiar  faces. 


©) 


5te& 


,o 


TO  A  CHILD, 

ON  HER  BIRTHDAY,  EST   SEPTEMBER. 

Steeped  in  the  soft  September  light, 

What  mellowing  hues  array 
The  forward  view !  —  so  pure  and  bright 

Be  all  thy  life's  long  day ; 
A  dewy  lustre  thus  be  shed, 

A  sweet  and  soothing  calm 
Swim  in  thine  eye,  and  o'er  thy  head 

Fall  on  thy  soul  like  balm. 


May  Heaven  preserve  each  dainty  tress 

From  all  that  would  destroy, 
As,  in  thy  playful  restlessness, 

They  seem  to  share  thy  joy ; 
Good  angels  shelter  from  all  ills 

The  fast-maturing  grace, 
That  with  a  saddening  sweetness  fills 

Thy  pensierosa  face. 


136 


TO  A    CHILD. 


Oft  as  I  turn  from  year  to  year, 

And  days  of  absence  roll, 
I  '11  bind  thy  vision,  made  more  dear 

By  memory,  to  my  soul ; 
I  '11  pray  that  he  by  whom  't  is  won 

May  keep  thy  minstrel  boon, 
A  singing  heart,  in  unison 

With  every  darling  tune. 


TO   SOPHIA. 

"  The  fear  of  the  Lord,  that  is  wisdom." 

Such  wisdom  as  thy  name  implies 

And  all  who  seek  may  find, 
Be  ever  honoured  in  thine  eyes, 

And  treasured  in  thy  mind ; 
Its  glory  more  than  gold  or  gem 

Thy  happy  brow  shall  deck, 
Be  on  thy  head  a  diadem, 

And  pearls  about  thy  neck. 
» 

For  they  who  fear  the  Lord  shall  be 

Unto  salvation  wise ; 
And  mighty  is  the  mystery 

Which  in  that  sentence  lies ; 
Unmoved  by  other  fear  or  shame, 

Let  but  that  fear  be  thine, 
And  in  the  spirit  of  thy  name 

Pursue  the  life  divine. 

137 


TO   A  LADY, 

WITH  A   SPRIG  OF  MYRTLE. 

O,  those  were  happy  times,  I  think, 

When  symbolizing  leaves 
Conveyed,  instead  of  pen  and  ink, 

The  thoughts  that  love  conceives. 
No  soiling,  then,  of  dainty  skin : 

Besides,  the  token  sweet 
From  each  obtruding  gaze  kept  in 

The  mystery  complete. 

Mere  words  are  all  too  rude  and  rough  ; 

Nor  can  the  tongue  reveal, 
In  terms  half  delicate  enough, 

What  raptured  spirits  feel. 
But  worlds  of  tender  sentiment 

In  one  green  spire  may  lie, 
And  kindred  hearts  know  more  is  meant 

Than  meets  the  stranger's  eye. 

138 


FOR  A  CHILD'S  ALBUM. 

Dear  child  of  many  a  hope  and  prayer, 
Write  in  this  little  book 

No  thought  on  which  thou  wouldst  not  dare 
To  have  thy  Saviour  look. 

On  every  line,  O,  may  He  pour- 
Some  glimmering  of  that  ray 

Which  shineth  ever  more  and  more 
Unto  the  perfect  day. 


Thine  be  a  daily  growth  in  grace, 

Whatever  else  betide, 
In  favour  with  our  rescued  race, 

And  God  be  on  thy  side ; 
Thine,  too,  in  holiest  purity 

An  upward  path  to  trace, 
Till,  with  thine  angel,  thou  shalt  s< 

In  heaven  thy  Father's  face. 


CttZ! 


FRAGMENT. 


ON  GIVING  THE  NAME  OF  A  DEPARTED  CHILD  TO 
HER  NEW-BORN  SISTER. 


'T  would  seem  to  blot  her  from  her  place. 

Though  she,  to  fill  one  bitter  cup, 
Hath  died,  we  must  not  thus  efface 

Her  memory.     No !  we  reckon  up 
The  lost,  who  slumber  in  their  grave, 

As  ours.     We  cite  their  several  names, 
Which  He,  who  now  hath  taken,  gave ; 

And  love  as  well  the  absent  claims 
As  this  new  born.     'T  would  give  me  pain 
To  hear  them  call  another  Jane. 

140 


>-*\j»%^2L0'  ■^2$)*®/ 


HOME. 


I  knew  my  father's  chimney-top, 

Though  nearer  to  my  heart  than  eye, 

And  watched  the  blue  smoke  reeking  up 
Between  me  and  the  winter  sky. 

Wayworn  I  traced  the  homeward  track 
My  wayward  youth  had  left  with  joy ; 

Unchanged  in  soul  I  wandered  back, 
A  man  in  years,  in  heart  a  boy. 

I  thought  upon  its  cheerful  hearth, 
And  cheerful  hearts'  untainted  glee, 

And  felt,  of  all  I  'd  seen  on  earth, 
This  was  the  dearest  spot  to  me. 

141 


ABSENCE. 


O,  when  shall  I  be  restored 
To  the  place  that  is  kept  for  me 

Around  the  hearth,  and  around  the  board, 
In  my  father's  family  ? 

When  shall  my  mother's  eye 

My  coming  footsteps  greet, 
"With  a  look  of  days  gone  by, 

Tender  and  gravely  sweet  ? 


I  know,  when  the  prayer  is  said, 
That  for  me  warm  bosoms  yearn, 

For  me  fond  tears  are  shed ! 
O,  when  shall  I  return  ? 

142 


THE  TWO   GRAVES. 


There  is  a  struggle  and  a  strife 

Within  me,  as  I  bid  adieu 
To  all  my  household  friends  in  life. 

And  may  not  say  the  same  to  you, 
But  leave  once  more,  dear  kindred  dead ! 
Your  lowly  tombs  unvisited : 


To  leave  unmarked  the  heaving  waves 

Of  that  still  burial-ground, 
Where  four  long  years  above  your  graves 

The  thickened  turf  has  bound ; 
And  think  that  that  rank-bladed  sod 
May  ne'er  again  by  me  be  trod. 

143 


144  THE    TWO   GRAVES. 

But  oftener  shall  my  bosom  yearn 
Toward  your  calm  bed  of  ease, 

And  thither  thought  and  feeling  turn 
In  their  sad  reveries ; 

And  never  shall  that  cherished  spot 

Be  in  my  stricken  heart  forgot. 

The  chain  of  grief,  time-drawn  to  length, 
That  binds  me  there  to  both, 

Alas  !  it  strengthens  with  my  strength, 
It  groweth  with  my  growth  ; 

And,  even  now,  my  spirit  sinks 

To  drag  its  still  increasing  links. 

When  thou  wast  called  away,  —  tl. 

In  burial  as  in  birth,  — 
I  thought  thy  parents'  souls  would  burst 

At  thy  return  to  earth, 
And  prayed  to  bear  the  grief  alone, 
Nor  add  their  anguish  to  my  own. 

It  was  too  much  to  feel  my  heart 
So  unprepared,  my  brother ! 

With  thee  in  this  vain  world  to  part, 
Or  meet  thee  in  another. 

O,  may  my  peace,  like  thine,  be  made 

Ere  my  cold  corse  is  near  thee  laid  ! 


THE   TWO    GRAVES.  145 

While  yet  we  struggled  to  sustain 

The  drear,  soul-sinking  weight, 
The  fatal  shaft  was  bent  again 

At  us  disconsolate, 
And  thou  wast  summoned  next,  —  the  best, 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest. 

The  seeds  of  visible  decay 

Were  in  thee  from  that  hour, 
And  thenceforth  thou  didst  pine  away, 

And  wither  like  a  flower. 
O  God  !  it  was  a  grievous  thing 
To  see  thy  bitter  suffering. 

Then  came  the  poignancy  of  woe, 

The  acme  of  distress, 
The  pangs  which  parents  only  know 

When  they  are  daughterless ; 
But  still  they  struggled  on,  and  still 
Submitted  to  their  Maker's  will. 

Now  all  that  of  thy  form  survives 

Is  at  thy  brother's  side, 
For  ye  were  lovely  in  your  lives, 

And  death  did  not  divide ; 
And  all  that  memory  brings  of  thee 
Is  to  my  bosom  agony, 
j 


146  THE   TWO   GRAVES. 

The  relics  of  thy  golden  hair, 
Thy  books,  and  dresses  gay 

Which  it  was  joy  to  see  thee  wear 
Upon  a  holiday,  — 

These  things,  alas !  now  thou  art  gone, 

It  wrings  my  heart  to  look  upon. 

Sometimes  thy  silvery  voice  I  hear 
Where  children  are  at  play, 

But  dare  not  lift  my  eye  for  fear 
The  spell  will  melt  away  ; 

Too  well  I  know  the  grave  denies 

Thy  image  to  my  waking  eyes. 

Still  it  has  been  to  me  a  dear, 
Though  desperate  delight, 

To  meet  thee  in  my  dreams,  and  hear 
Thee  bless  my  sleeping  sight ; 

And  waking  from  those  visions  vain, 

I  've  wept  to  dream  them  o'er  again. 

And  yet,  so  pure,  why  should  I  weep 
Thy  early  death,  sweet  child  ? 

How  might  we  hope  on  earth  to  keep 
Thy  spirit  undefiled  ? 

What  but  thy  prompt  departure  hence 

Could  save  thy  angel  innocence  ? 


THE   TWO    GRAVES.  147 

Yes,  when  I  see,  beloved  child  ! 

The  evil  ways  of  men, 
My  soul  is  more  than  reconciled 

To  thy  departure  then ; » 
And  blessings  flow  to  Him  that  died 
That  sinners  might  be  sanctified. 

Now  thou  art  in  the  Spirit-land, 

With  the  holy  and  the  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  to  trouble,  and 

The  weary  are  at  rest ; 
And  I  am  happy,  since  I  know 
That  thou  shalt  be  forever  so. 


a  These  four  lines  are  virtually  quoted  from  a  beautiful  little 
poem,  by  Caroline  Bowles,  addressed  "  To  a  Dying  Infant "  :  — 
"  I  look  around,  and  see 
The  evil  ways  of  men ; 
And,  0  beloved  child  ! 
I  'm  more  than  reconciled 
To  thy  departure  then." 


NEW-YEAR  THOUGHTS. 

My  Muse  is  no  migrating  bird, 

Nor  one  that  sleeps  the  cold  away  ; 
But  in  her  parlour  cage  is  heard 

Still  piping  her  perennial  lay. 
While  o'er  the  sea  her  tribes  retire, 

She,  though  a  patient  sufferer, 
Keeps,  from  her  prison  by  the  fire, 

The  household  in  a  cheerful  stir. 

What  dearer  lesson  to  impart 

To  murmuring  minds  than  her  rich  song  ?  — 
"  Abate  no  jot  of  hope  or  heart, 

Though  days  grow  short,  and  cold  grows  strong. 
Though  pent  up  in  a  straitened  room, 

Break  out,  like  me,  in  merriest  strain, 
And  rise  above  the  circling  gloom 

Till  better  days  come  round  again." 

148 


NEW-YEAR    THOUGHTS.  149 

How  much  we  need  such  song  of  cheer, 

He  will  not  ask  who  looks,  I  ween, 
Where  through  the  portals  of  the  year 

The  wintry  world  without  is  seen ; 
He  will  not  ask  who  sees  the  sky 

Lowering  with  grim  and  murky  face, 
Or  hears  the  boding  frost- wind  sigh 

Around  his  ice-bound  dwelling-place. 


He  will  not  ask  who  sees  the  crowd, 

In  twilight  dim,  so  hurrying  past, 
All  muffled  to  the  eyes,  and  bowed 

Before  the  keen  and  biting  blast ; 
He  will  not  ask  who  promptly  goes, 

On  such  a  night,  at  duty's  call, 
MVlid  hail,  and  sleet,  and  drifting  snows, 

And  storm-drops  freezing  as  they  fall. 


He  will  not  ask  who  has  to  do, 

These  dismal  times,  with  suffering  men, 
And  follows  famine's  ghastly  crew 

To  misery's  cold  and  squalid  den, 
Where  fires  are  out,  or  burning  low, 

And  through  broad  chinks  and  broken  panes 
The  scythe-like  air  sweeps  to  and  fro, 

Curdling  the  life-blood  in  the  veins. 


150  NEW-YEAR    THOUGHTS. 

He  will  not  ask  who  climbs  the  stair, 

Where,  reft  of  fuel,  fire,  and  food, 
A  mother  sits,  like  wan  despair, 

Benumbed  amid  her  huddling  brood ; 
"Where  hopeless  woe  and  hunger  steel 

To  every  form  of  ill  the  mind, 
Half  crazed  by  sense  of  what  they  feel, 

And  fear  of  what  is  worse  behind. 


O,  wouldst  thou  keep  thy  heart  in  tune 

'Mid  fireside  joys,  thy  spirit  lift, 
Like  song  of  bird  in  gay  saloon, 

Or  blossoms  in  the  snowy  drift ; 
With  deeds  of  love  thy  joys  expand, 

And  deal  the  blessings  of  thy  lot 
On  every  side,  with  generous  hand, 

To  aching  throngs  that  have  them  not 


Go,  warm  the  cold ;  go,  clothe  the  bare ; 

Go,  feed  the  starved  ones  at  thy  door ; 
And  let  the  empty-handed  share 

From  out  thy  basket  and  thy  store ; 
Go,  wipe  from  misery's  eye  the  tear, 

Take  by  the  hand  affliction's  son  ; 
And  happy  shall  be  all  the  year 

That  is  thus  happily  begun. 


NEW-YEAR    THOUGHTS.  151 

Go,  give  the  sick  and  weary  rest ; 

Gladden  the  cells  where  prisoners  lie  ; 
Pour  balm  and  oil  in  wounded  breast, 

And  soothe  the  soul  about  to  die. 
Go  where  thy  name  a  blessing  draws 

From  rescued  lips  on  such  employ ; 
Partake  the  bliss  of  those  who  cause 

The  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy. 


Do  thus,  and  thou  shalt  go  to  rest 

With  music  round  thy  midnight  bed, 
And,  blessing,  shall  be  trebly  blessed 

For  each  such  soul  thus  comforted. 
Thy  sun  shall  make  a  golden  set 

This  New  Year's  day,  and  be  by  far 
The  happiest  day  that  ever  yet 

Was  lettered  in  thy  calendar  ! 


A  NEW  YEAR'S   ADDRESS. 

FROM  THE  DESK  OF  POOR  RICIIARD,  JR. 

A  happy  New  Year,  patrons,  friends ! 

Incline  a  gracious  ear 
To  what  Poor  Richard,  junior,  sends 

To  prove  his  wish  sincere ; 
And  do  not  grudge,  he  says,  to  take 

Out  of  his  earthen  jar 
True  treasures,  for  the  giver's  sake, 

If  they  true  treasures  are. 


As  pure,  through  Bozra's  shallowest  stream, 

Oft  glitter  grains  of  gold, 
And  fair  the  blessed  flowerets  gleam 

From  sods  all  dull  and  cold ; 

152 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS.        153 

So  those  who  prized  old  Richard's  prose, 

Will  not  to-day  disdain 
Whatever  wholesome  precept  glows 

Beneath  the  carrier's  strain. 

Ye  who  would  change  these  evil  days, 

And  have  them  truly  blest, 
Must  make,  in  ancient  Richard's  phrase, 

Of  everything  the  best : 
And  each,  though  knowing  but  in  part 

The  mystery  of  sin, 
Must  cure  in  his  own  evil  heart 

His  evil's  origin. 

The  secret  is,  Poor  Richard  says, 

But  understood  by  few, 
That  they  have  happiest  New  Year's  days 

Who  have  the  most  to  do : 
The  poor  rejoiceth  in  his  tasks, 

With  present  good  content, 
And  sweet  his  daily  bread  who  asks 

But  to  be  innocent. 


He  little  knows  the  bitter  cost 
At  which  the  rich  increase ; 

The  hours  of  sweet  composure  lost, 
And  compensating  peace ; 


154        A  NEW  YEARS  ADDRESS. 

He  little  knows  their  waking  toils, 

Their  visions  of  distress, 
Who  dream,  amid  their  hoarded  spoils, 

Of  fortune's  fickleness. 

Cups  strive  to  hold,  Poor  Richard  writes, 

The  bucket's  draught  in  vain  ; 
Nor  can  man's  straitened  appetites 

More  than  their  fill  contain. 
Enjoyment  has  its  bounds,  though  deep 

Be  wealth's  unfailing  spring, 
And  all  our  chiefest  comforts  keep 

In  moderation's  ring. 

Labour  to  pleasure  giveth  zest, 

Which  gold  can  never  win ; 
Cheap  recreations  are  the  best, 

And  none  so  dear  as  sin. 
True  joy  is  where  yon  visitant 

Some  broken  spirit  cheers, 
And  where  the  pale,  lank  cheek  of  want 

Is  wet  with  grateful  tears. 

A  bold,  bad  man,  or  fool,  is  he 

Who  dare  the  cup  refuse 
Which  mercy  mixeth  lovingly, 

And  would  his  neighbour's  choose. 


A  NEW  YEARS  ADDRESS.        155 

We  know  the  worst  of  what  we  are, 

But  not  another's  curse ; 
And  certain  bad  is  better  far 

Than  dread  of  something  worse. 

Poor  Richard  knows  full  well  distress 

Is  real,  and  no  dream ; 
And  yet  life's  bitterest  ills  have  less 

Of  bitter  than  they  seem. 
Meet  like  a  man  thy  coward  pains, 

And  some,  be  sure,  will  flee ; 
Nor  doubt  the  worst  of  what  remains 

Will  blessings  prove  to  thee. 

And  thou,  whose  days  abundance  bring, 

Give  needy  men  their  due ; 
Who  saves  the  poor  from  suffering, 

May  save  from  sinning  too. 
And  be  thou  slow  to  wield  the  rod 

When  others  do  thee  wrong, 
And  bear  awhile  with  them,  when  God 

Hath  borne  with  thee  so  long:. 


On  you  alone,  of  lily  kind, 

Effeminate  and  pale, 
Who  idle  in  the  summer  wind, 

Poor  Richard  fain  would  rail, 


156        A  NEW   YEARS  ADDRESS. 

Because  ye  have  not  toiled  and  spun 

As  sister  lilies  might, 
Nor  are  ye  wise  as  Solomon, 

Though  gaudier  to  the  sight. 

Your  only  place,  ye  well-arrayed,  — 

Poor  Richard  thinks,  —  for  whom 
The  world  is  under  tribute  laid 

For  finery  and  perfume, 
Soon  as  your  well-anointed  hair 

Is  long  enough  to  braid, 
Should  be  with  some  man-milliner, 

To  learn  a  useful  trade. 


These  are  a  few  of  Richard's  rules ; 

Nor  does  he  much  expect 
To  found,  amid  the  rival  schools, 

A  very  numerous  sect ; 
Nor  will  he  longer  moralize, 

Lest  he  should  prove  severe ; 
Enough  is  said  to  help  the  wise 

To  make  a  happy  year ! 


VALENTINE. 


I. 


Again  the  fated  hours  have  come, 

As  holy  legends  tell, 
When  Valentine  in  martyrdom 

A  blessed  victim  fell ; 
And  doubt  thou  not,  one  wish  of  thine, 

O  gentle  maid  !  would  make, 
This  day,  thy  chosen  Valentine 

A  martyr  for  thy  sake. 


By  ice  and  snow  though  severed  wide, 

Naught  else,  O  maiden  true  ! 
Of  cold  or  distance  shall  divide 

Between  myself  and  you ; 
Though  many  a  bond  in  sunder  parts, 

Snapped  by  this  frosty  weather, 
It  shall  but  keep  two  loving  hearts 

Still  closer  bound  together. 
157 


;  c      -♦,.  ••♦  •?♦  ♦?♦  •?♦  ♦♦♦  .♦•  •♦♦  ♦?♦ 


VALENTINE. 

II. 

"  Nee  me  meminisse  pigebit  Euss.£, 
Dum  memor  ipse  mei,  durn  spiritus  hos  regit  artus. 
Pro  re  pauca  loquur." 

No  season  this  for  leaves  and  flowers  ; 

And  wandering  birds  who  seek  a  mate, 
'Mid  wintry  winds  and  snowy  showers, 

Find  all  forlorn  and  desolate. 
They  come  too  soon,  or  Spring  too  late ; 

A  caution,  as  it  were,  to  me, 
Lest  I  should  rashly  tempt  my  fate, 

And  disappoint  my  destiny. 

My  heart,  so  like  the  season,  cold, 

Has  lost  its  once  elastic  spring, 
And  warns  me  I  am  much  too  old 

To  go  again  philandering  : 
And  yet,  could  youth  replume  its  wing, 

And  love  inspire  the  thrilling  line, 
Not  Petrarch's  self  such  stores  should  bring, 

To  win  thee  for  his  Valentine. 

153 


VALENTINE. 
HI. 

"  0  thou  sweet  spirit,  heai  ! 
Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  charm  .'  " 

Lady  !  beneath  a  potent  sign, 

I  hail  thee  from  afar, 
For  't  is  the  night  when  Valentine 

Reigns  in  the  calendar ; 
And  he  my  patron  saint  above         • 

All  other  saints  shall  be, 
Who  suffered  for  devoted  love, 

And  manly  constancy. 

Few  relics  of  his  mortal  part, 

And  fewer  still,  I  ween, 
Of  his  true  love  and  tender  heart, 

In  these  cold  days  are  seen  : 
But  if  his  spirit  still  may  rest 

On  earth,  O,  be  it  mine, 
Till  I,  dear  maid,  shall  stand  confessed 

Thv  faithful  Valentine ! 


A  VALENTINE. 
IV. 

I  stand  the  fated  hours  among ; 

And  ere  their  spell  depart, 
I  would  not  leave  thee  all  unsung, 

Fair  lady  of  my  heart ! 
Though  wintry  airs  are  wondrous  sharp, 

Though  storms  obscure  the  moon, 
And  cold  has  snapped  thy  strings,  poor  harp ! 

My  heart  is  still  in  tune. 

Yes,  let  the  world  without  be  chill, 

Let  all  be  wild  and  wet, 
The  fire  within  glows  brightly  still, 

The  pulse  throbs  warmly  yet ; 
Nor  will  it  throb,  dear  maid,  in  vain : 

How  rude  soe'er  the  line, 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  not  disdain 

Thine  own  true  Valentine. 


THE    CHAPEL    BELL,    YALE    COLLEGE. 

FROM  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  A  LATE  POOR  SCHOLAR. 

"  The  chapel  bell  with  grief  they  heard, 
The  dinner  bell  with  glee."  —  Old  Song. 

Dan  Chaucer,  in  my  dreaming  ear 

Methinks  thou  reasonest  well,  — 
"  What  jingleth  in  the  wind  so  clear 

As  doth  the  chapel  bell  ?  " 
The  tongue,  that  once  roused  holy  clerk 

To  lauds  and  primes,  is  still, 
In  college  towers,  as  hard  at  work,  — 

As  lively  and  as  shrill. 


That  chapel  bell  no  ear  forgets 
That  once  its  voice  has  known, 

And  way  of  turning  somersets 
Peculiarly  its  own : 

K  161 


162  THE   CHAPEL  BELL. 

Hark !  how  they  follow  round  and  round, 

And  oft  in  silence  dance, 
As  if,  for  very  joy,  the  sound 

Had  lost  its  utterance ! 

Alas !  old  chapel  bell,  to  me, 

Whose  precious  dreams  are  broke 
By  these  remains  of  Popery, 

Thy  jargon  is  no  joke  ! 
I  Ve  mixed  too  much  with  Protestants, 

And  trust  I  ever  shall, 
To  relish  these  monastic  haunts, 

And  hours  canonical ! 

O,  dull  as  lead  that  scene  of  gloom 

Where  students  stretch  and  yawn, 
Pent  up  in  recitation-room 

An  hour  before  the  dawn  ; 
Well  may  the  cheek  with  blushes 'glow, 

To  think  of  wrongs  then  done 
Thy  injured  shade,  O  Cicero ! 

And  thine,  O  Xenophon  ! 

A  fig  for  all  affected  talk 

Of  early  matin  prayers, 
Of  long  and  lone  surburban  walk, 

And  bracing  morning  airs ; 


THE   CHAPEL  BELL.  163 

If  stomachs  are  unbreakfasted. 

The  case  can  scarce  be  worse  ; 
And  if  as  empty  is  the  head, 

'T  is  sure  a  double  curse. 

I  '11  bless  my  stars,  which  shine  so  bright, 

When  I  shall  be  no  more 
Compelled  to  rise  by  candle-light, 

And  vote  the  stars  a  bore. 
I  '11  laugh  as  I  have  never  laughed, 

Nor  dread  the  coming  ill 
Of  meeting  some  protested  draft 

Of  monitorial  bill. 

O,  how  I  grudge  that  graduate's  luck 

Who  has  of  sleep  his  fill, 
And  snores  like  Captain  Clutterbuck, 

Released  from  morning  drill. 
He  rises  not  at  tuck  of  drum, 

Nor  with  the  daybreak  gun, 
Nor  always,  it  is  said  by  some, 

With  winter's  tardy  sun. 

Like  him,  these  summons  I  '11  deride, 

Draw  closer  down  my  cap, 
And,  turning  on  my  other  side, 

Resume  my  morning  nap. 


164 


THE   CHAPEL  BELL. 


I  '11  linger  for  a  richer  tone, 
Till  in  the  breakfast  bell 

I  feel,  and,  with  the  poet,  own 
Thy  tonch,  Ithuriel ! 


AN  APOLOGY. 

FROM  A  ROCK  CALLED  THE  POET'S  SEAT. 

Emerging  from  the  stoned  wood, 

Enforced,  I  took  the  poet's  seat ; 
Inspiring  faces  o'er  me  stood, 

And  Greenfield  lay  beneath  my  feet. 
With  lulling  sound  I  heard  fast  by 

The  unseen  river's  broken  flows, 
And  all  things  seemed  to  multiply 

One  image  of  serene  repose. 


I  little  thought,  'mid  musings  vain, 

How  like  that  stone  to  fate  of  bard,  — 
Rich  visions  floating  round  his  brain, 

But  ah !  his  seat,  so  lone  and  hard ! 
Of  friendship  and  of  feeling  full, 

How  little,  in  his  weakness,  dreamt  he 
That  head  and  fancy  both  were  dull, 

And,  like  his  rocky  inkstand,  empty  ! 


ARCHITECTURAL. 


HOUSES  OF  WORSHIP.' 


Pray  tell  me,  is  yon  classic  dome, 

Hemmed  in  on  either  flank, 
Designed  for  God's  or  Mammon's  home, 

A  temple  or  a  bank  ? 
And  tell  me  why,  to  human  eyes, 

No  outward  signs  declare 
If  it  be  house  of  merchandise, 

Or  holy  house  of  prayer. 


The  Hindoo  pagod's  towers  are  gay 

With  flaunting  banners  set ; 
And  crescents  in  the  sunbeams  play 

On  mosque  and  minaret  : 
As  by  the  Synagogue  I  went, 

Some  months  ago,  I  saw 
Conspicuous  in  the  pediment 

The  tables  of  the  law. 

166 


ARCHITECTURAL.  167 

But  who  shall  say  of  this  unique 

With  what  it  has  to  do, 
Or  Catholic,  or  Heretic, 

Or  Pagan,  Turk,  or  Jew  ? 
Or  that  new  pantheistic  sect 

Whose  creeds  with  all  accord, 
Who  worship,  with  a  like  respect, 

"  Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  "  ? 


O,  why  should  Christian  men  thus  fear 

To  lift  on  every  shrine 
The  symbol  to  their  souls  most  dear, 

Faith's  sure  and  steadfast  sign ; 
That  swerves  not  when  the  vanes  are  whirled, 

The  sport  of  every  breeze, 
As  fitful  as  this  fickle  world, 

Or  fancy's  reveries  ? 


But  look  on  all  the  neighboring  spires, 
And  see  it  written  plain, 

The  shape  which  most  the  town  admin- 
Is,  like  its  name,  but  vain. 

The  Cross  is  still  a  stumbling-block, 
And  noisy  Gushfords  vaunt 

That  nothing  but  your  weathercock 
Is  purely  Protestant. 


168 


ARCHITECTURAL. 


There  were  some  reason  on  their  side, 

If  these  same  cocks  could  crow 
As  often  as  is  Christ  denied 

By  those  who  meet  below  ; 
Or  could  they  warn  the  wavering, 

By  passion  tossed  and  doubt, 
Of  their  unrest  whom  every  wind 

Of  doctrine  veers  about. 


ffiM^ffiMiffiffiffiHBfflS 


=S^=3sS: 


NAHANT. 


Rocks,  sands,  and  seas, 

What  charms  hast  thou  but  these, 

O  desolate  Nahant ! 
Rocks,  sands,  and  seas, 
Twelve  grotesque  cottages, 
And  six  storm-beaten  trees, 

Struck  all  aslant ! 


ame 


OLD  NORTH   COCK. 

Roosted  upon  his  ancient  ball, 
Last  night,  sat  the  old  North  cock, 

In  the  midst  of  a  terrible  northeast  squall 
Which  made  the  steeples  rock, 

And  waked  the  watchmen  one  and  all, 
As  the  bell  tolled  twelve  o'clock. 

"With  head  erect  and  unruffled  form, 
The  hearty  and  tough  old  cock, 

Through  wind  and  rain,  and  cold  and  warm, 
All  weathers  continues  to  mock ; 

And  he  whisked  him  round  to  face  the  storm, 
And  breasted  himself  to  the  shock. 

O  image  of  triple  guilt,  quoth  I, 
I  should  very  much  like  to  know 


OLD  NORTH  COCK.  171 

If  you  have  a  bit  of  reason  why, 

While  all  these  changelings  here  below, 

Like  Peter  of  old,  their  Lord  deny, 
You  never  were  known  to  crow. 

Whist !  whist !  quoth  Chanticleer,  you  're  slow ; 

How  could  I  crow  as  fast  or 
Oft,  as  these  my  friends  below, 

And  each  misguiding  pastor, 
And  the  Priestly  men  who  teach  them  so, 

Deny  their  Lord  and  Master  ? 


®^g^ 


(!) 





NEW  HAVEN. 

A  tves'dow  in  a  picture-shop ;  it  brought  all  back 
to  rue 

The  churches  and  the  colleges,  and  each  familiar 
tree; 

And,  like  a  sunlit  emerald,  came  glancing  out,  be- 
tween 

Tts  pretty,  snow-white  palisades,  the  verdure  of  "  the 
Green." 

O,  could  I  write  an  Ode,  like  Gray's,  upon  a  distant 

view 
Of  Eton  College, — could  I  draw  the  pictures  that 

he  drew,  — 
How  would   the  pleasant  images  that  round  my 

temples  throng 
Live  in  descriptive  dactyls,  and  look  verdantly,  in 


song! 


172 


NEW  HAVEN  173 

"  Tres  faciunt  collegium,"  each  jurist  now  agrees ; 
Which    means,    in    the    vernacular, —  a    college 

made  of  trees; 
And,  bosomed  high  in  tufted  boughs,  yon  venerable 

rows 
The  maxim  in  its  beauty  and  its  truth  alike  disclose. 

Not  so  when,  lit  with  midnight  oil,  the  casements  in 

long  line, 
(Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  eye,)  like 

constellations  shine ; 
And,  alma-mater  like,  the  kine,  from  dairy  fields 

astray, 
Make  every  passage  where  they  pass  a  sort  of  milky 

way. 

And  on  the  green  and  easy  slope  where  those  proud 

columns  stand, 
In  Dorian  mood,  with  academe  and  temple  on  each 

hand, 
The  football  and  the  cricket-match  upon  my  vision 

rise, 
With  all  the  clouds  of  classic  dust  kicked  in  each 

other's  eyes. 

I  see  my  own  dear  mother  Church,  that  warned  me 

from  my  sin, 
The  walls  so  Gothic  all  without,  so  glorious  all  within, 


174  NEW  HAVEN. 

And,  emblem  of  that  ancient  faith  her  hallowed 

courts  that  fills, 
Reared  from  the  adamantine  rock,  the  everlasting 

hills. 

0,  could  the  vista  of  my  life  but  now  as  bright  ap- 
pear 

As  when  I  first  through  Temple  Street  looked  down 
thine  espalier, 

How  soon  to  thee,  my  early  home,  would  I  once 
more  repair, 

And  cheer  again  my  sinking  heart  with  my  own 
native  air ! 


PRISON  HYMN,  BY  MARY,  QUEEN  OF 
SCOTS. 


Jehovah,  my  Saviour, 

My  confidence  Thou ; 
O  loveliest  Jesus, 

Deliver  me  now ! 
In  closest  immurings, 
In  cruel  endurings, 
My  flesh  and  my  spirit  cry  out  after  Thee ! 

I  languish 

In  anguish, 
And,  bending  the  knee, 

Adore  Thee, 

Implore  Thee 
To  liberate  me. 

175 


LAKE   OWASCO. 

"  One  of  the  seren  fair  lakes  that  lie 
Like  mirrors  'neath  the  summer  sky." 

Exsenoee. 

Fair  upon  thy  tranquil  face 

The  gilded  clouds,  in  rich  array, 
Reflected  pass,  and  leave  no  trace,  — 

Types  of  thy  people  passed  away  ! 
And  he  who  through  thy  pictured  page 

Looks  deepest  down,  with  rapture  sees, 
Like  relics  of  that  long-lost  age, 

The  glimmerings  of  dim  mysteries. 

Well  may  the  statesmen,  for  such  seats, 

Resign  the  empire's  helm  awhile, 
And  deep  within  thy  green  retreats 

The  languid  summer  hours  beguile. 
Here  Scipio  had,  in  joy,  repaired 

With  Laslius,  at  the  Senate's  close, 
And  by  thy  shaded  strand  had  shared 

The  charms  of  friendship  and  repose. 


LAKE    OWASCO.  177 

Bright  visions  haunt  thy  storied  dells, 

Nor  may  thy  crystal  waters  drown 
The  mingled  pomps  of  poet's  spells, 

And  legends  of  thine  old  renown. 
To  fancy's  ear  they  utter  speech 

In  tones  unsyllabled  before, 
And  every  ripple  on  the  beach 

Seems  faintly  whispering,  "  Ensenore  ! 


ALBANY. 


"  Genus  unde  Latinum 
Albaxiqtje  patres  atque  alt^e  mcexia  Rosle.-' 


Instinct  with  filial  love  I  come,  O  ancient  Albany  ! 

My  childhood's  faithful  nurse,  to  pay  the  tribute 
due  to  thee ; 

For  in  thy  dear  domestic  haunts  I  learned  my  ear- 
liest song, 

And  manhood's  riper  minstrelsies  to  thee  of  right 
belong ! 

"When,  after  many  weary  years,  again  to  thee  I  drew, 

And  suddenly  from  Greenbush  side  the  landscape 
burst  to  view, 

How  thrilled  my  pulse,  how  swelled  my  heart,  upon 
that  lofty  height ! 

For  never  in  my  life,  methought,  saw  I  a  fairer  sight. 

178 


ALBANY.  179 

Thy  gilded  spires  and  pinnacles  rose  glittering  in 

the  sun, 
And  each  familiar  edifice  I  counted  one  by  one, 
As,  row  on  row  descending  steep,  they  met  the 

river  shore, 
Which,  sheathed  in  winter's  icy  mail,  with  masts 

was  bristled  o'er. 
Though  sharply  blew  the  northern  wind,  so  bril- 
liant was  the  scene, 
So  shone  the  noble  stream  that  lay  in  glassy  bonds 

between, 
I  felt  thou  wert  a  spectacle  of  stirring  power  to 

see, 
And  proudly  hailed  thee  as  mine  own,  O  ancient 

Albany ! 


Yet  brighter  than  that  spectacle,  that  prospect's 
fair  array, 

Or  Nature  in  her  purity  that  round  about  me  lay, 

A  dearer  vision  chained  my  soul  more  touching  far 
than  these, 

And  peopled  all  the  pictured  past  with  busy  mem- 
ories. 

O,  let  me  in  my  weakness  give  these  childish  feel- 
ings way, 

That  rush  upon  me  as  I  weave  my  humble  verse 
to-day, 


180  ALBANY. 

Nor  wonder  if  the  spells  of  youth,  strong  as  enchant- 
ment's chain, 

Should  bind  me  to  the  single  theme,  and  quite  ab- 
sorb the  strain. 

What  troops  of  stirring  images  my  brooding  faucy 

fill, 
Oft  as  I  turn  my  glistening  gaze  to  Capitol  and  Hill ! 
As  fast  they  rush  as  when,  of  yore,  with  many  a 

reckless  boy, 
I  glided  down  its  dangerous  slope,  and  snatched  a 

fearful  joy. 
Where  are  the  partners  of  those  feats,  the  striplings 

one  and  all, 
Who  sat  with  me  at  Wisdom's  feet  in  old  k'  Uranian 

Hall," 
Ere  yet  the  genius  of  the  place  her  fostering  care 

withdrew, 
To  gather  fitter  audience  there,  and  fairer  though 

less  few  ? 

How  small  their  living  number  now !  how  many  in 

their  grave, 
The  gallant  and  the  generous,  the  beautiful  and 

brave ! 
And  hearts  are  broke  and  eyes  are  dim  which  then 

with  lustre  shone, 
And  each  stands  in  the  other's  sight  unknowing 

and  unknown. 


ALBANY.  181 

While  thus  our  cycles  sadly  pass,  and  flesh  and  blood 

decay, 
How  good  to  know  that  all  we  prize  has  not  yet 

passed  away,  — 
That  while  earth's  generations  change,  as  years  have 

come  and  gone, 
Still  Freedom's  precious  heritage  of  human  rights 

lives  on ! 

Still  peers  the  self-same  Capitol  upon  the   city's 

brow, 
Though  loftier  to  my  boyhood's  eye,  yet  not  more 

dear  than  now ; 
Nor  less  illustrious  on  its  rolls  its  statesmen's  glory 

shines, 
True  to  their  common  country  each,  though  ranged 

in  adverse  lines. 
In  democratic  majesty  again  around  me  rise 
Its  long  processions  of  the  past,  the  mighty  and  the 

wise, 
The  men  of  reverend  name  who  there  discharged 

their  honoured  trust, 
And  filled  my  soul  with  wisdom's  words  and  senti- 
ments august. 
There  first  I  marked  his  high  career,  whose  early 

merit  won 
The  choicest  of  his  epithets,  "  the  people's  favourite 

son ; " 


182  ALBANY. 

Who  to  the  triumph  in  the  van  led  on  the  Empire 

State, 
And  now  in  highest  sphere  adorns  his  country's 

consulate. 

Long  may  the  Alban  fathers  there  in  Koman  virtue 

sit, 
And  tire  its  echoes  with  the  strains  of  eloquence 

and  wit, 
And,  fast  emerging  from  the  cloud  and  din  of  fac- 
tious war, 
Make  our  symbolic  orb  of  day  rise  still  "  Excelsior  I " 
May  yet  the  good    St.  Nicholas  maintain  our  old 

renown, 
From  worthy  sire  to  worthier  son  to  be  transmitted 

down, 
And  keep  beneath  his  tutelage,  till  time  shall  cease 

to  be, 
The  trophies  of  thy  founders'  fame,  0  ancient  Co- 

lonie  ! 


FRAGMENTS. 


SUNDAY   MORNING. 


Lord  of  the  Sabbath,  hear  me,  —  even  Thou 

In  the  beginning  who  didst  consecrate 

A  meet  proportion  of  the  new-born  time 

To  thy  perpetual  service,  to  assist 

The  deep  infirmities  of  mortal  kind  ; 

Blessing  the  seventh  day  and  hallowing  it 

As  a  memorial  of  thine  own  repose 

From  thy  creative  labors,  and  a  pledge 

And  presage  of  the  glorious  rest  eterne 

Remaining  for  the  Israel  of  God. 

Here  let  me  worship,  as  the  Hebrew  did, 

In  the  serene  of  yon  deep  vault,  ere  Thou, 

Half  veiled  within  the  tabernacle  bright, 

Madest  thy  pavilion  in  the  wilderness, 

Amid  the  long,  white  avenues  of  tents. 

The  world's  great  fathers,  in  those  primal  days, 

Drowned  in  the  abyss  of  ages  which  have  been, 


184  FRAGMENTS. 

Made  each  high  hill  their  altar.     Happy  they 

Who  met  together,  at  this  holy  hour, 

Beneath  some  mountain  palm,  the  place  of  prayer 

Ere*  temple  rose,  or  oratory  cool 

Was  built  fast  by  the  sea  or  river  side. 


IN   A   HEBREW   BIBLE   WITHOUT   POINTS. 

Open  now  the  Hebrew  page, 
Sleek  and  glossy  spite  of  age  ; 
Unsophisticated  text, 
By  no  Masorite  perplext ; 
Where  each  character  you  see 
In  its  stern  simplicity. 
Upright,  racy,  square,  and  bold, 
Symbol  of  the  truth  they  hold, 
As  the  eye  delights  to  track, 
Row  by  row,  the  letters  black, 
Say,  is  not  each  martial  line 
"Worthy  of  the  Word  divin  e  ? 


ON  A   SERMON-COVER. 


Nor  was  my  earliest  sermon  case  forgot, 
With  velvet  cover,  and  with  vellum  lined ; 
The  openiug  collects  on  the  left-hand  page, 


FRAGMENTS. 


185 


And  on  the  right-hand  those  of  closing  prayer, 
With  skill  imprinted  at  the  Wickham  press. 
Though  soiled  and  worn,  yet  not  more  soiled  and 

worn 
Than  are  the  dingy  sheets  I  fasten  in, 
Oft  as  I  preach  contemporaneous  notes. 
Not  so  the  truths  themselves,  nor  truest  love, 
Decay  and  perish,  though  the  world  wear  old 
And  threadbare  as  the  velvet,  and  the  skies 
Be  shrivelled  parchment  at  the  day  of  doom ! 


CONVOCATION  POEM. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

[This  fragment  of  what  the  author  suppressed  as  a 
"  wretched  doggerel,"  is  all  that  is  known  to  remain  of 
the  poem  which  the  poet  delivered  before  the  House  of 
Convocation  of  Trinity  College,  in  the  month  of  August, 
1848.  It  is  preserved  for  the  interest  which  it  shows  in 
that  seat  of  learning,  and  for  the  local  matters  to  which 
it  gives  a  memorial,  and  the  useful  rebukes  it  points.  It 
was  written  invitd  Minerva,  in  the  greatest  haste ;  it  was, 
in  fact,  a  sort  of  improvisation,  and  he  never  referred  to 
the  performance  except  with  expressions  of  extreme  re- 
pugnance, such  as  appear  in  the  verse  itself.  Beginning 
with  recollections  of  the  Puritan  College  at  New  Haven, 
he  refers  to  the  pictures  in  the  "  Trumbull  Gallery."] 

There  first  we  gazed  on  the  serene  expanse 

Of  Berkeley's  bright  and  heavenly  countenance, 

And  could  not  but  contrast  it,  in  our  sport, 

AYith  thy  pinched  visage,  prick-eared  Davenport  ; 

Nor  queried,  as  we  turned  to  either  face, 

Which  were  the  real  genius  of  the  place. 

186 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  187 

[He  then  takes  tip  an  idea  which  has  been  thrown  out  by 
another,  in  a  former  Convocation  poem  (1840),  and  speaks 
of  Trinity  College  as  the  realization  of  Bishop  Berkeley's 
attempt  to  establish  St.  Paul's  College  in  Bermuda.] 

Taught,  (in  a  brother's  words,)  to  love  in  thee 

"  Earth's  every  virtue,  writ  in  poesy ; " 

O  Berkeley,  as  I  read,  with  moistened  eyes, 

Of  thy  sublime  but  blasted  enterprise, 

Refusing,  in  thy  pure,  unselfish  aim, 

To  sell  to  vulgar  wealth  a  founder's  fame, 

But  in  thy  fervour  sacrificing  all 

To  objects  worthy  of  the  name  of  Paul, 

What  joy  to  see  in  our  official  line 

A  faith  revived,  identical  with  thine  ; 

Pledged  to  fulfil  the  spirit  of  thy  scheme, 

And  prove  thy  College  no  ideal  dream ! 

[He  next  refers  to  the  portrait  of  Bishop  Seabury  in 
Trinity  College,  mentioning  the  fact  that  Bishop  Berke- 
ley's son  was  a  chief  instrument  in  obtaining  the  conse- 
cration of  Bishop  Seabury  by  the  Scottish  Bishops.] 

And  when,  on  yonder  walls,  we  now  survey 

The  man  "  whose  grace  chalked  his  successor's  way," 

And  study,  Samuel,  thy  majestic  head, 

By  Berkeley's  son  to  Heaven's  anointing  led, 

And  see  the  ways  of  Providence  combine 

The  gentle  bishop  with  the  masculine, 

We  pray  this  noblest  offspring  of  thy  see 

May  honour  Berkeley,  nor  dishonour  thee. 


1 88  CONVO  CA  TION  P  OEM. 

[He  now  refers  to  Dr.  Cutler,  formerly  Rector  of  Yale 
College,  and  Dr.  Johnson,  one  of  its  Fellows,  who  in  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  became  convert^ 
to  the  principles  of  the  Church,  from  the  light  of  their 
studies,  and  were  of  course  deprived  of  their  places. 
They  went  to  England  for  orders;  Cutler  became  Rec- 
tor of  Christ  Church,  Boston,  and  Johnson  the  father  of 
churches  and  of  churchmen  in  Connecticut.  Dr.  Cros- 
well  himself,  and  Dr.  Eaton,  who  were  present  on  the  oc- 
casion, were  both  successors  of  Cutler  in  the  Rectorship 
of  Christ  Church.] 

And  join  with  these  those  master  minds  of  yore 
Who   loved  their    College   much,   but   conscience 

more,  — 
Cutler  and  Jorrxsox,  whom  one  rigorous  day- 
Drove  out  from  Yale,  a  voluntary  prey, 
To  reap  at  once  by  Cam  and  Isis'  side 
The  honours  which  maternal  scorn  denied. 
Though  it  might  well  provoke  their  reverend  smiles 
To  think  of  rivalling  those  immortal  piles, 
Yet,  as  aspiring  over  sect  and  clique, 
To  follow  all  that  made  them  catholic, 
If  they  were  here,  from  Christ  Church  chimes  afar, 
To-day,  as  Cutler's  two  successors  are, 
They  would  have  prayed,  dear  Trinity,  to  see 
"  No  drought  on  others,  but  much  dew  on  thee." 

[Next  the  poet  speaks  of  architecture,  and  laments  the 
prostitution  of  the  Gothic  to  common  uses,  and  especially 
bewails  the  lack  of  proper  chapels  in  American  Colleges.] 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  189 

Harvard  and  Yale  have  both  revived  the  style 

And  antique  grandeur  of  some  fine  old  pile. 

Those  solemn  towers,  —  how  beautiful  they  stand, 

Like  mighty  minsters  of  our  fatherland ! 

But  not,  alas  !  for  worship  ;  though  their  looks 

Be  so  cathedral-like,  they  hold  but  books ; 

The  form  without  the  spirit,  each  retains,  — 

The  vizard  of  the  fable  without  brains. 

And  so  they  sever  piety  from  art, 

Addressing  more  the  intellect  than  heart. 

Not  to  resist  the  truism  of  the  hour, 
We  freely  grant  that  knowledge  may  be  power  ; 
But  on  our  knees,  and  not  on  alcoved  shelves, 
We  find,  through  God,  the  knowledge  of  ourselves. 

[It  should  be  recollected  that  this  poem  was  spoken  in 
Christ  Church,  of  which  the  Eev.  Dr.  Wheaton,  its  Rec- 
tor, had  been  the  architect.  The  poet  now  passes  to  as- 
pirations for  Trinity.] 

But  far  from  such  unholy  sights  as  these 

The  hopes  that  haunt  our  sacred  reveries : 

In  yonder  hall  there  yet  is  room  to  spare 

For  store  of  books,  —  would  that  the  books  were 

there ! 
But  (if  indeed,  the  love  of  letters  hold 
Its  place,  as  handmaid  to  the  Faith  of  old) 


190 


CONVOCATION  POEM. 


If  we  would  have  that  favoured  site  to  be, 

Above  all  others,  "fair  exceedingly," 

Let  Wheaton  plan,  like  this,  another  shrine 

For  purposes  exclusively  divine  ; 

Not  York  Cathedral  "  on  a  smaller  scale," 

And  "  much  improved  where  the  dark  ages  fail ;  " 

Nor  yet  King's  College  Chapel,  that  "  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence ;  " 

But  "  all  ice  can, —  high  Heaven  disdains  the  lore 

Of  nicely-calculated  Ipss  or  more." 

There,  with  the  stony  archwork  overhead, 

Beneath  our  feet  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 

And  monumental  effigies  around, 

The  soul  might  wander  as  in  holy  ground, 

And  feel  a  soft  religious  sadness  brood, 

Deepening  the  spirit  of  its  quietude. 

There  let  the  sun  "  salute  with  his  first  smile 

Our  holiest  symbol  crowning  the  dear  pile  ;  " 

And  be  the  power  of  architecture  shown 

To  lift  the  Athanasian  Creed  in  stone. 

Within,  a  tempered  light,  like  sunset  skies, 

Let  glimmerings  of  a  thousand  gorgeous  dyes 

Shed  streaming  down  from  every  pictured  pane 

Their  rainbow  glories  round  the  vaulted  fane, 

And  through  the  window  o'er  the  altar  fling 

The  heaven-hued  symbols  in  enamelling. 

There  let  the  organ  and  the  strain  devout 

Make  every  stone  in  sympathy  cry  out, 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  191 

Like  some  harmonious  fabric  of  the  Lord's, 

"  Whose  vaults  are  shells,  and  pillars  tuneful  chords." 

There  let  the  surpliced  priests  in  order  stand,  — 

And  why  not  white-robed  choirs  on  either  hand  ? 

If  this  be  too  extravagant  a  pitch, 

(Alas  that  our  endowments  are  not  rich  !) 

Still,  what  we  can.     Let  us  contend,  at  least, 

For  daily  service  and  the  vested  priest ; 

And  let  the  season  blend,  in  fixed  career, 

The  Christian  and  the  academic  year ; 

Be  music  carried  to  the  full  extent 

Allowed  by  ancient  choral  precedent ; 

And  let  the  students'  well-trained  voices  swell 

Each  hoary  laud,  time-honoured  canticle, 

Which  England,  purged  from  superstition's  stain, 

Resumed  among  her  earliest  rites  again. 

[He  refers  next  to  the  attempts  at  daily  and  choral  ser- 
vices, made  at  Hobart  College,  and  Burlington,  and  St. 
Paul's  in  Missouri,  —  the  latter  under  the  Rev.  William 
Corbyn,  one  of  Yale's  Berkeley  scholars.] 

Hark !  the  strains,  increasing  far  and  wide, 
From  Seneka  and  graceful  Riverside  ! 
Like  deep  to  deep  the  billowy  anthem  calls, 
From  far  Nashotah  to  her  own  St.  Paul's, 
And  rings  through  her  affiliated  halls. 
Vale  of  the  Cross,  as  gentle  shepherds  tell, 
Such  sounds  are  heard  in  thy  secluded  dell ; 


192 


CONVOCATION  POEM. 


From  Corbyn's  grot  the  self-same  chant  is  raised, 
And  "  daily  prayer  is  made,  and  daily  is  He  praised.' 


[He  recurs  to  the  divers  uses  which  the  chapel  of  Yale 
College  is  made  to  serve,  in  contrast  with  such  chapels  as 
he  has  spoken  of.] 

Perhaps  it  is  not  scandal  to  compare 

Such  courts  with  that  amphibious  place  of  prayer, 

(Contrived,  like    Goldsmith's  chest,  two  debts  to 

pay,— 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day,) 
Where  now  awhile  in  worship  we  engage, 
Then  knights  and  squires  shall  enter  on  the  stage ; 
Which  for  a  time  a  meeting-house  is  made, 
And  then  it  glitters  in  a  masquerade. 
Four  years  I  saw  the  central  aisle  divide 
The  rows  of  rising  seats  on  either  side, 
Where  double  choirs,  ward  over  against  ward, 
Might  sing  responsive  praises  to  the  Lord. 
But  not  so  these  :  while  yet  the  tutor  reads, 
The  muster-master's  busy  work  proceeds. 
In  due  obeisance  every  head  was  bent 
Upon  the  entering  of  the  President, 
But 't  was  a  superstition  for  the  free 
At  Jesus'  name  to  bow  the  lowly  knee. 
And  scarce  the  echoes  died  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Before  the  youths  declaimed,  or  spouted  plays. 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  193 

These  are  the  ways  which  in  our  Western  climes 
Make  the  "  men-children  of  these  forward  times ;  " 
Of  whom  old  Dryden  said,  so  long  ago, 
"  But  seven  wise  men  the  ancient  world  did  know, 
We  scarce  know  seven  that  think  themselves  not 

so." 
Against  these  evils  let  the  Church  commence 
Her  sure  protection,   and  her  "  cheap  defence." 
Though  worldly  cares  have  chilled  devotion's  flame, 
Here  let  our  needs  a  daily  homage  claim ; 
Here  let  our  prayers  like  morning  incense  rise, 
Our  lifted  hands  like  evening  sacrifice  ; 
Devotion's  debt  at  morn  and  eve  to  pay, 
And  magnify  our  Saviour  day  by  day. 

In  order  these  great  objects  to  secure, 
All  must  be  first  begun  in  miniature  ; 
And  if  a  while  your  patience  will  but  bear 
With  these  plain  couplets,  I  will  tell  you  where. 

This  is  the  place  and  time ;  at  once  begin 
Here  to  restore  the  ancient  discipline. 
Adopt  the  Church's  homogeneous  plan 
To  make  the  boy  the  father  of  the  man  ; 
Where,  in  their  due  development,  appear 
The  blade,  the  ear,  the  full  corn  in  the  ear, 
So  making  good  the  old  proverbial  line, 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent,  the  trees  incline. 
M 


194  CONVOCATION  POEM. 

Let  every  pupil,  with  his  sapling,  aid 
To  fill  the  grounds  with  "shrubbery  and  shade 
Plant  oaks  and  "  elms,  those  undissenting  trees," 
That  grow  not  fast,  but  thrive  for  centuries ; 
Beneath  -whose  shadow,  ages  hence,  our  heirs 
May  bless  our  forethought,  and  take  thought  for 

theirs. 
And  let  the  English  ivy,  high  and  thick, 
Conceal  the  tame  monotony  of  brick,  — 
Amid  the  snows  of  winter  ever  green, 
From  summer  suns  a  most  refreshing  screen. 

Nor  would  my  scheme  reject  the  dining-hall, 
"Where  what  was  meant  for  one  was  meant  for  all ; 
Such  as  it  was  of  old,  when  common  food 
Was  made  a  bond  of  Christian  brotherhood, 
And  each  might  wait,  and  of  his  Saviour  learn 
"  To  be  as  him  that  serveth,"  in  his  turn. 

But  first  of  all  erect  a  chapel  there, 

And  join  at  morn  and  eve  in  common  prayer ; 

If  means  be  wanting,  take  yon  upper  room, 

And  teach  the  light  M  to  counterfeit  the  gloom  ;  " 

Then,  chastening  down  the  gaudy  light  of  day, 

Subdue  the  thoughts  bewildered  with  their  play, 

And  let  the  organ  add  its  soothing  sway. 

Set  up  the  holy  altar  there,  and  trail 

Their  young  affections  round  the  chancel  pale ; 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  193 

Purging  the  taint  of  heresy  and  schism 

By  constant  portions  of  the  Catechism. 

In  open  view,  let  none  regard  the  floor 

Too  low  when  prostrate  mortals  would  adore, 

But  duly  raise,  upon  their  bended  knees, 

The  full  response  of  ancient  litanies  : 

Invoke  their  Saviour  in  his  Church's  voice, 

And  in  his  eucharistic  hymns  rejoice. 

The  pointed  Psalter  printed  in  their  heart, 

There  let  them  learn  to  bear  their  tuneful  part. 

Drilled  to  the  cadence  of  that  thrilling  scale 

Which,  caught  from  seraphs,  must  o'er  earth  prevail. 

So  shall  the  watered  seed  spring  up,  and  so 

Children  of  grace  to  giant  stature  grow. 

Nor  let  us  see  that  holy  place  within 

A  priest  in  "  broadcloth  buttoned  to  the  chin." 

Holmes  writes,  "  Heaven  needs  no  surplice ; "  as  if  he 

Thought    Heaven    is    pleased    when    men    dress 

slovenly. 
Heaven  needeth  not  man's  wisdom,  but  "  much  less 
It  needeth  any  of  man's  foolishness." 

If  this  be  superstition,  may  we  be 

All  guilty  of  it  in  the  first  degree. 

Remembr'ing  thus  Jerusalem  in  mirth, 

Sweet  Herbert  found  his  very  heaven  on  earth  ; 

And  Milton  tells,  as  Milton  only  can, 

What  thus  he  learned,  —  poor,  superstitious  man  ! 


196  CONVOCATION  POEM. 

O,  on  yon  slope,  may  some  such  towers  arise 
As  plumed  his  Avings  sublime  for  paradise ! 
Where,  in  our  day,  due  feet  might  never  fail, 
Like  his,  to  walk  the  studious  cloisters'  pale, 
And  love,  like  him,  the  high  embowed  roof 
Besting  on  antique  pillars,  massy  proof, 
And  catch  through  storied  windows  richly  dight 
A  dim,  religious,  (superstitious)  light : 
There  may  Ave  hear  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  full-voiced  choirs,  antiphonal,  below, 
In  that  same  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 
As  oft  with  sweetness  through  his  charmed  ear 
jyissolved  great  Milton's  self  to  ecstas 
And  brought  all  heaven  before  his  raptured  eyes. 

[He  now  suggests  the  building  of  a  Senate- House,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hart,  the  river  which  winds  about  the  College 
grounds.] 

And  yet  another  tabernacle  rear 
For  such  occasions  as  have  brought  us  here ! 
Above  the  stir  and  din  of  mangling  mart, 
Beside  the  ancient  passage  of  the  Hart, 
Let  faith  and  fancy  help  to  give  to  fame 
"  A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

[Next  he  satirizes  the  Trinity  College  processions  to 
Christ  Church  through  the  dusty  town.] 

Beneath  the  dog-star  and  midsummer  heat, 
Let  no  procession  through  the  burning  street, 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  197 

With  tasselled  cap  and  academic  gown, 

Exposed  to  the  annoyance  of  the  town, 

Like  needless  alexandrine  in  the  song, 

Or  wounded  snake,  trail  its  slow  length  along. 

Pavilioned,  if  it  need  be,  in  a  tent, 

Until  some  Wykeham  makes  it  permanent ; 

Or  cloistered  where  o'erarching  boughs  have  made 

Kefreshing  contiguity  of  shade  ; 

There  let  us  gather,  where  no  sounds  intrude 

To  break  the  silence  of  the  solitude 

Save  song  of  native  birds,  or  —  piercing  scream 

Of  railroad  engine  clattering  o'er  the  stream ! 

If  we  must  have  processions,  let  them  pass 

When  shadows  lie  the  longest  on  the  grass  ; 

And  for  this  martial  music,  let  there  be 

Such  chants  as  floated  down  the  sylvan  Dee,  — 

The  "  Miserere  mei,  Domine." 

And  let  the  bell  in  yonder  humble  tower 

Wake  dewy  silence  at  an  earlier  hour, 

And  usher  in,  betimes,  the  festal  day 

With  merry  peal  and  changeful  roundelay. 

So  in  the  morning,  far  from  Babel's  dust, 
These  August  days  might  yet  be  days  august, 
And  words  of  power  the  place  might  glorify, 
Which  willingly  the  world  would  not  let  die. 
There  Dana  might,  in  happiest  mood,  rehearse 
Some  last  great  effort  of  his  deathless  verse  ; 


198  CONVOCATION  POEM. 

Or  IBVTNG,  like  Arcadian,  might  beguile 
The  golden  hours  with  his  melodious  style ; 
Or  he  who  takes  no  second  living  rank 
Among  the  classics  of  the  Church,  —  VbrplaxcKJ 
Or  he  whose  course  "  right  onward,"  here  begun, 
Now  sheds  its  brightness  over  Burlington, 
Where  our  young  sons  like  noble  saplings  grow, 
And  daughters  like  the  polished  pillars  show. 


[Last  of  all,  he  censures  the  custom  of  building  platforms 
in  churches,  and  celebrating  academic  festivals  therein.] 

My  heart  upbraids  me,  friends,  with  double  wrong, 

While  I  inflict  and  you  endure  the  song. 

Were  we  indeed  in  earnest,  and  sincere, 

When  we  professed  that  heaven's  high  gate  was  here  ? 

And  set  apart  forever,  day  and  night. 

These  solemn  courts  for  old  liturgic  rite  ? 

Then  we  must  sure  be  wrong ;  we  greatly  err 

Who  use  the  church  worse  than  the  theatre, 

And,  like  false  Israel,  our  high  places  raise 

As  scaffolds  on  our  sacrificing  days  ; 

Where  one  at  least,  poor  victim  of  his  kind, 

If  not  as  strong  as  Samson,  yet  as  blind, 

Comes  sadly  forth,  to  make  Philistines  sport, 

And  immolate  himself  in  Dagon's  court ; 

Content  if  but  the  sacrifice  should  tend 

To  bring  these  gross  abuses  to  an  end. 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  199 

Pardon  thy  servant,  Lord,  if  he  profane 
These  hallowed  walls  with  his  unworthy  strain ; 
Forgive,  this  once,  all  that  to-day  he  durst  — 
His  last  transgression,  as  it  is  his  first  — 
In  telling  truths  which  everybody  knows, 
But  dare  not  speak  them  plainly  out  in  prose ; 
And  for  the  future,  hear  his  solemn  pledge 
To  be  no  party  to  the  sacrilege. 

O,  would  we  teach  young  scholars  reverence, 

Let  judgment    here  begin,  — "  take   these   things 

hence." 
And  doubt  it  not,  His  Holy  Spirit  grieves 
To  see  His  house  made  like  a  den  of  thieves ; 
To  see  a  scaffold,  by  our  graduates  trod, 
Erected  o'er  the  altar  of  our  God  ; 
And  grave  divines  upon  the  platform  meet, 
To  tread  our  holiest  things  beneath  their  feet. 
This  cannot  sure  be  right :  we  ask  to  see, 
If  not  perfection,  yet  consistency. 
No  wonder,  where  such  profanation  dwells, 
If  sons  emerge  precocious  infidels. 
O,  better  far,  if  we  can  find  no  hall 
For  such  assembly,  to  have  none  at  all ; 
Or,  like  the  sons  of  knighthood,  take  degrees 
Before  the  altar,  on  our  bended  knees. 

[He  censures  more  severely  the  gross  custom  of  leasing 
pews,  annually,  by  an  auctioneer.] 


200  CONVOCATION  POEM. 

Scarce  more  disgusting  't  is,  when  year  by  year, 

With  his  red  flag,  comes  in  the  auctioneer. 

Abomination,  blazoned  on  his  face, 

Stands,  where  it  ought  not,  in  the  holy  place ; 

Where  he  who  sells  combines  with  him  who  buys 

To  make  God's  house  a  house  of  merchandise. 

Within  the  sacred  altar's  rail,  or  desk, 

He  lifts  his  voice  in  impudent  burlesque  ; 

Lays  godless  hands  upon  the  Bible  lid, 

Not  to  ask  blessings,  but  to  ask  —  a  bid  : 

And  voices,  never  heard  in  time  of  prayer, 

Are  emulous  in  loud  responses  there. 

O,  thus,  methinks,  might  Mammon  once  have  stood^ 

With  that  same  look,  and  that  same  attitude, 

And  bent  his  downward  glances  to  behold 

Heaven's  courts  inlaid  with  patines  of  briglil  gold, 

And,  as  the  poet  tells,  admiring  more 

The  trodden  wealth  of  that  resplendent  floor 

Than  aught  enjoyed  of  holy  or  divine, 

In  vision  beatific,  at  the  shrine. 

But  had  that  spirit,  "  least  erect,"  the  gift 

With  which  our  modern  Mammon  follows  thrift, 

He  might  from  his  high  place  have  learned  to  muse 

Of  parcelling  heaven's  pure  pavement  into  pews  ', 

Seen  how  to  make  each  consecrated  floor 

Productive  gold,  that  was  but  wood  before  ; 

Where  men  have  leave  in  narrow  slips  to  pray, 

(If  pray  they  choose,)  provided  that  they  pay  ; 


CONVOCATION  POEM.  201 

Yet  need  not  care  to  worship  on  their  knees, 
But  sit,  like  rows  of  meal-sacks,  at  their  ease. 

Unless  its  title-deeds  a  falsehood  tell, 
The  house  of  God  cannot  be  man's  to  sell; 
Nor  yet  to  turn,  in  sight  of  God  and  man, 
Into  a  kind  of  college  caravan. 
If  insincere  our  gift,  —  if  we  retain 
Part  of  the  price,  —  the  gift  is  worse  than  vain. 
"We  dare  to  tempt  His  ancient  people's  fate, 
Whose  house  was  left  unto  them  desolate ; 
And  though  no  gates,  like  theirs,  asunder  start, 
Nor  unseen  voices  cry,  "  Let  us  depart," 
The  glory  will  have  vanished,  and  our  God 
Have  written  on  its  portals,  Ichabod. 

[It  is  due  to  Trinity  College  to  state  that  the  reforms  here 
indicated  have  been  more  than  begun,  and  that  no  College 
in  New  England  can  be  compared  with  it  for  the  beauty  of 
its  grounds,  the  decent  order  of  its  chapel-services,  or  the 
propriety  of  its  public  ceremonies.  Nowhere  is  a  more 
thorough  course  of  instruction  provided  for  the  student, 
and  a  bright  future  is  confidently  anticipated  for  the  Col- 
lege by  all  who  regard  the  influences  of  the  Church  as  an 
essential  element  in  the  full  development  of  character.] 


^S*^ 


PSALM  I. 

Happy  the  man  who  never  walks 
Where  impious  men  repair, 

Nor  lingers  in  the  sinner's  way, 
Nor  takes  the  scoffer's  chair. 

But  in  Jehovah's  ordinance 
He  finds  a  pure  delight ; 

Enriching  thus  the  orisons 
Of  every  day  and  night. 

He  like  a  fruitful  tree  shall  be, 
Set  by  the  water's  brim  ; 

His  leaf  shall  never  fade,  and  all 
Is  prosperous  with  him. 


Not  so  the  impious  ones :  —  like  chaff 

Swept  by  the  wind  away. 
They  with  the  righteous  shall  not  stand 

Upon  the  judgment  day. 


PSALM  I. 


203 


They  hold  no  place  amid  the  just, 
Whose  way  Jehovah  knows  ; 

And  every  path  of  godless  men 
Shall  in  perdition  close. 


psalm  cxxxm. 

Behold,  how  good  it  is, 

How  beautiful  to  see, 
When  brethren  together  dwell 

In  perfect  unity. 

Like  perfume  on  the  head, 

Diffusing  fragrance  round 
The  high  priest's  beard,  and  o'er  the  robes 

Whose  fringes  sweep  the  ground. 


Like  Hermon's  dews  which  melt 
Fair  Zion's  summits  o'er ; 

For  there  Jehovah's  blessing  rests, 
And  life  forevermore. 

204 


PSALM  CXXXIV. 

0,  praise  Jehovah,  ye 
Who  his  true  servants  be, 

Jehovah  praise ! 
Ye  who  to  stand  delight, 
And  worship  in  his  sight, 
Nor  leave  his  courts  by  night, 

Jehovah  praise  ! 

With  hands  uplifted  high, 
His  oracle  draw  nigh ; 

Jehovah  praise  ! 
Till  he  with  holiness 
His  tribes  from  Zion  bless, 
And  heaven  and  earth  confess 

Jehovah's  praise ! 

205 


PSALM   CXXXVII. 

By  the  waters  of  Babel  we  sat  down  and  wept, 
As  we  called  our  dear  Zion  to  mind ; 

And  our  harps  that  in  joy  we  so  often  had  swept 
Now  sighed  on  the  trees  to  the  wind. 

Then  they  that  had  carried  us  captive  away. 

In  mockery,  challenged  a  song, 
And  wringing  out  mirth  from  our  sadness,  would 
say, 

"  Sing  the  strains  that  to  Zion  belong." 

0  how  shall  we  sing  the  ineffable  song 

In  a  godless  and  barbarous  land  ? 
If  the  minstrels  of  Salem  could  do  her  such  wrong, 

Be  palsied  each  cunning  right  hand. 

206 


PSALM  CXXXVIL  207 

Let  my  tongue  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  ever  cling, 
If  aught  else  should  its  praises  employ, 

Or  if  Salem's  high  glories  it  choose  not  to  sing, 
Above  all  terrestrial  joy. 

Remember  the  children  of  Edom,  O  Lord, 
How  they  cried,  in  Jerusalem's  woe, 

Her  ramparts  and  battlements  raze  with  the  swore, 
Her  temples  and  towers  overthrow. 

O  daughter  of  Babel !  thy  ruin  makes  haste ; 

And  blessed  be  he  who  devours 
Thy  children  with  famine  and  misery's  waste, 

As  thou,  in  thy  rapine,  served  ours. 


PSALM  CL. 

"  Hail  ye  the  Lord !  » 

Hail  hirn  in  his  sanctitude  ! 

Hail  him  in  his  highest  height ! 
Hail  him  for  his  deeds  of  good  ! 

Hail  him  for  his  matchless  might  ! 

Hail  him  in  the  trumpet's  strain  ! 

Hail  him  with  the  lyre  and  lute  ! 
Hail  him  with  the  timbrel  train  ! 

Hail  him  with  the  strings  and  flute  ! 


Hail  him  with  the  cymbal's  ring  ! 

Hail  him  with  their  loudest  chord ! 
Hail  him,  every  breathing  thing  ! 

Hail,  all  hail,  the  sovereign  Lord  ! 


ADVENT. 

Rejoice  in  the  Lord  alway  ;  and  again  I  say,  Rejoice.    The  Lord 
is  at  hand.  —  Epistle  for  the  Sunday  be/ore  Christmas. 

Now  gird  your  patient  loins  again, 

Your  wasting  torches  trim ; 
The  Chief  of  all  the  sons  of  men,  — 

Who  will  not  welcome  Him  ? 
Rejoice !  the  hour  is  near ;  at  length 

The  Journeyer  on  his  way 
Comes  in  the  greatness  of  his  strength 

To  keep  his  holy  day. 


With  cheerful  hymns  and  garlands  sweet, 

Along  his  wintry  road, 
Conduct  him  to  his  green  retreat, 

His  sheltered,  safe  abode  ; 

N  209 


210 


ADVENT. 


Fill  all  liis  courts  with  sacred  songs, 

And  from  the  temple  wall 
Wave  verdure  o'er  the  joyful  throngs 

That  crowd  his  festival. 

And  still  more  greenly  in  the  mind 

Store  up  the  hopes  sublime 
Which  then  were  born  for  all  mankind, 

So  blessed  was  the  time  ; 
And  underneath  these  hallowed  eaves 

A  Saviour  will  be  born 
In  every  heart  that  Him  receives 

On  his  triumphal  morn. 


WYVVv^/yMfff 


HYMN  FOR   ADVENT. 

While  the  darkness  yet  hovers, 

The  harbinger  star 
Peers  through  and  discovers 

The  dawn  from  afar  ; 
To  many  an  aching 

And  watch-wearied  eye, 
The  dayspring  is  breaking 

Once  more  from  on  high. 

With  lamps  trimmed  and  burning, 

The  Church  on  her  way 
To  meet  thy  returning, 

O  bright  King  of  day  ! 
Goes  forth  and  rejoices, 

Exulting  and  free, 
And  sends  from  all  voices 

Hosannas  to  thee. 
211 


212  HYMN  FOR  ADVENT. 

She  casts  off  her  sorrows, 

To  rise  and  to  shine 
With  the  lustre  she  borrows, 

O  Saviour  !  from  thine. 
Look  down,  for  thine  honour, 

O  Lord  !  and  increase 
In  thy  mercy  upon  her 

The  blessing  of  peace. 

Her  children  with  trembling 

Await,  but  not  fear, 
Till  the  time  of  assembling 

Before  thee  draws  near  ; 
When,  freed  from  all  sadness, 

And  sorrow,  and  pain, 
They  shall  meet  thee  in  gladness 

And  glory  again. 


\ 


mJJLtLUJJULUJUilJUiU^JJJU 


CHRISTMAS. 

The  glory  of  Lebanon,  etc.  —  Isaiah. 

The  thickly-woven  boughs  they  wreathe 

Through  every  hallowed  fane, 
A  soft,  reviving  odour  breathe 

Of  summer's  gentle  reign ; 
And  rich  the  ray  of  mild  green  light 

Which,  like  an  emerald's  glow, 
Comes  struggling  through  the  latticed  height 

Upon  the  crowds  below. 

O,  let  the  streams  of  solemn  thought, 

Which  in  those  temples  rise, 
From  deeper  sources  spring  than  aught 

Dependent  on  the  skies. 
Then,  though  the  summer's  glow  departs, 

And  winter's  withering  chill 
Rests  on  the  cheerless  woods,  our  hearts 

ShaU  be  unchanging  still. 

213 


,;".'■■■        -  •  ;"'■:'■'•. 


VIGIL   OF  THE   CIRCUMCISION. 

THE   DYING  TEAR. 

Hark  to  thy  last  hour's  passing  knell, 

A  startling  sound  to  hear : 
Eternally  we  bid  farewell 

To  thee,  departing  year ! 
Go  join  the  long-gone  centuries, 

Thy  sisters  dim  and  gray  ; 
For  soon,  with  all  thy  power  to  please, 

Thou  shalt  be  dim  as  they. 


'T  is  o'er  —  thy  weight  of  weal  and  woe, 

And  nearer  lies  the  bourn 
To  which  though  all  life's  travellers  go, 

No  travellers  return. 
O,  who  can  read  thy  doomsday  roll 

Of  days  and  hours  misspent, 
Nor  seek  a  refuge  for  his  soul 

From  their  just  punishment  ? 


THE  EPIPHANY. 

And  when  they  had  opened  their  treasures,  they  presented  unto 
him  gifts;  gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh.  —  Gospel  for  the 
Day. 

We  come  not  with  a  costly  store, 

0  Lord !  like  them  of  old, 
The  masters  of  the  starry  lore, 

From  Ophir's  shores  of  gold ; 
No  weepings  of  the  incense  tree 

Are  with  the  gifts  we  bring, 
Nor  odorous  myrrh  of  Araby 

Blends  with  our  offering. 

But  still  our  love  would  bring  its  best : 

A  spirit  keenly  tried 
By  fierce  affliction's  fiery  test, 

And  seven  times  purified. 
The  fragrant  graces  of  the  mind, 

The  virtues  that  delight 
To  give  their  perfume  out,  will  find 

Acceptance  in  thy  sight. 

215 


FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

The  merchandise  of  Ethiopia.  —  Lesson  for  the  Day. 

Princes  shall  come  from  Egypt,  and 

The  path  of  life  be  trod 
By  myriads,  when  the  Morian's  laud 

Shall  stretch  her  hand  to  God ; 
Then  Cush,  and  Ophir,  and  the  sea 

No  idle  gifts  shall  bring, 
But  soul  and  body  both  shall  be 

Their  grateful  offering. 


The  Ethiop  may  not  change  his  skin, 

Nor  leopard  change  his  spot ; 
But  God  can  work  a  change  within, 

Though  man  observeth  not. 
A  holier  dawn  shall  chase  the  night, 

And  darkness  pass  away, 
And  these  shall  also  walk  in  white, 

In  Heaven's  eternal  day. 

216 


SECOND   SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

This  beginning  of  miracles  did  Jesus  in  Cana  of  Galilee,  and 
manifested  forth  his  glory,  and  his  disciples  believed  on  him.  — 
Gospel  for  the  Day. 

0  humblest  and  happiest  bridal  of  earth ! 

O  Cana  of  Galilee,  blest 
With  the  sanction  of  Christ  for  thine  innocent  mirth, 

That  first  saw  His  glory  confessed, — 
A  glory  enlivening  the  festival  board, 

Increasing  its  generous  store, 
And  cheering  the  hearts  that  in  wonder  adored, 

Till  the  cup  of  their  gladness  ran  o'er  ! 

And  who  will  unbless  what  the  Saviour  has  blest  ? 

What  being  of  arrogant  mould 
Will  dare  at  the  bridal  where  He  is  a  guest, 

The  cup  of  his  favour  withhold  ? 
And  why  are  thy  bounties,  O  Master  !  disdained, 

When  thy  smile  so  indulgent  will  be. 
If  with  conscience  unwounded,  and  spirit  unstained, 

They  remind  us  of  Cana  and  Thee  ? 

217 


QUIXQUAGESIMA   SUNDAY. 

A  certain  blind  man  sat  by  the  wayside.  —  Gospel  for  tlu  Day. 

Poor,  and  desolate,  and  blind, 

Like  the  wayside  wanderer,  we 
(Saviour  !  by  thy  grace  inclined) 

Fain  would  guide  our  steps  to  thee. 
'Mid  the  tumult  of  mankind, 

Still  in  love  thou  passest  by ; 
Still  let  those  who  seek  thee  find ; 

Hear  our  never-ceasing  cry. 


Darkly  through  our  glass  we  see ; 

Shadows  wrap  our  loveliest  day ; 
Lovelier  will  the  vision  be 

When  the  scales  shall  fall  away. 
Saviour,  though  a  tenfold  night 

O'er  the  outward  sense  should  roll, 
Brighter  let  thy  cloudless  light 

Shine  forever  in  the  soul. 


LENT. 

Thou  who,  for  forty  days  and  nights,  o'ermastered 
all  the  might 

Of  Satan,  and  the  fiercest  pangs  of  famished  appe- 
tite, — 

O  Saviour!  leave  us  not  alone  to  wrestle  with 
our  sin, 

But  aid  us  in  these  holy  hours  of  solemn  disci- 
pline. 


Let  not  the  tempter  tempt  us,  Lord,  beyond  our 

strength  to  bear, 
Though,  in  the  desert  of  our  woe,  he  wildly  shrieks, 

Despair ! 
Let  not  our  humble  confidence  be  in  thy  promise 

stirred, 
Nor  clouds  of  dark  distrust  spring  up  between  us 

and  thy  word. 

219 


220  LENT. 

Nor  let  us  yet  be  lifted  up,  —  by  him,  the  prince 

of  air, 
To  scale  presumption's  dizzy  height,  and  left  to 

perish  there ; 
Nor  on  the  temple's  pinnacle,  in  our  self-righteous 

pride, 
Be  set  for  thee  to  frown  upon,  and  demons  to  deride. 

And  O,  when  pleasure,  power,  and  pomp  around 

our  vision  swim, 
And,  through  the  soft,  enchanting  mist,  he  bids  us 

worship  him, 
Assist  us  from  the  revelling  sense  the  sorcerer's  spell 

to  break, 
And  tread  the  arch  apostate  down,  Redeemer  !  for 

thy  sake. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  EASTER. 

Great  Shepherd  of  our  souls !  O,  guide 
Thy  -wandering  flock  to  feed 

In  pastures  green,  and  by  the  side 
Of  stilly  waters  lead. 

Do  thou  our  erring  footsteps  keep, 

Whose  life  was  given  for  the  sheep. 


O,  let  not  us,  who  fain  would  cleave 
To  thy  communion,  stray, 

Nor,  tempted  into  ruin,  leave 
The  strait  and  narrow  way  : 

Before  us  thou  the  path  hast  trod, 

And  thou  canst  lead  us,  Son  of  God. 
221 


222 


HYMN. 


0,  let  us  hear  thy  warning  voice, 

And  see  thy  arm  divine ; 
Thou  know'st  the  people  of  thy  choice, 

And  thou  art  known  of  thine. 
Do  thou  our  erring  footsteps  keep, 
Whose  life  was  given  for  the  sheep. 

Then  when  we  pass  the  vale  of  death, 
Though  more  and  more  its  shade 

Around  our  journey  darkeneth, 
We  will  not  be  afraid, 

If  thou  art  with  us,  and  thy  rod 

And  staff  console  us,  Son  of  God- 


V 


HYMN  FOR  WHITSUNDAY. 


Creator  Spirit !  come  and  bless  us ; 
Let  thy  love  and  fear  possess  us ; 
With  thy  graces  meek  and  lowly 
Purify  our  spirits  wholly. 
Paraclete,  the  name  thou  bearest, 
Gift  of  God  the  choicest,  dearest, 
Love,  and  fire,  and  fountain  living, 
Spiritual  unction  giving, 
Shower  thy  benedictions  seven 
From  thy  majesty  in  heaven. 


Be  the  Saviour's  word  unbroken, 
Let  thy  many  tongues  be  spoken ; 
In  our  sense  thy  light  be  glowing, 
Through  our  souls  thy  love  be  flowing ; 


224         HYMN  FOR    WHITSUNDAY. 

Cause  the  carnal  heart  to  perish, 
But  the  strength  of  virtue  cherish, 
Till,  each  enemy  repelling, 
And  thy  peace  around  us  dwelling, 
"We,  beneath  thy  guidance  glorious, 
Stand  o'er  every  ill  victorious. 


REVEILLE. 


Up  !  quit  thy  bower  ;  't  is  the  matin  hour  ; 

The  bell  swings  slow  in  the  windowed  tower, 
And  prayer  and  psalm,  in  the  soothing  calm, 

Steal  out,  by  turns,  on  the  air  of  balm ; 
And  in  solemn  awe  of  a  morn  so  still, 
E'en  the  small  birds  sins  with  a  voice  less  shrill. 


Up,  lady  fair  !  —  't  is  the  hour  of  prayer,  - 
And  hie  thee  forth  in  the  bracing  air ; 

Now  bow  the  knee,  while  land  and  sea 
Repose  in  their  bright  tranquillity  ; 

And  the  sun  as  pure  a  lustre  throws 

As  the  glorious  dawn  when  he  first  arose. 

O  225 


SAINT  THOMAS. 

When  from  their  native  Palestine 

The  twelve  spread  far  and  wide, 
Alone  lie  went  from  Salem's  shrine 

On  to  the  Ganges'  side. 
The  greensward  was  his  dying  bed, 

And  from  the  crimson  sod 
His  blood,  which  Brahma's  children  shed, 

Went  reeking  up  to  God. 

On  that  foundation,  long  unsought, 

For  eighteen  hundred  years, 
A  Middleton  and  Heber  wrought, 

And  their  successor  rears. 
The  Church  for  which  his  blood  was  spilt, 

How  can  it  be  o'erthrown, 
On  Prophets  and  Apostles  built, 

With  Christ  the  Corner-stone  ? 


SAINT  PAUL. 

The  holy  saints  of  old, 

On  God's  commission  sent, 
Their  high  and  heavenly  station  hold 

Above  our  measurement ; 
They  shine,  each  unapproachable, 

A  constellated  star, 
And  in  their  glorious  beauty  dwell, 

Companionless,  afar. 

But  let  us  not  forget 

That  we  are  kin  to  these, 
Men  of  like  passions,  and  beset 

With  like  infirmities ; 
Nor  will  their  spirits  emulous 

Our  brotherhood  contemn ; 
As  erst  they  have  been  one  with  us, 

We  may  be  one  with  them. 

227 


223  SAINT  PAUL. 

Still  round  our  darkling  road 

Their  heavenly  light  they  shed, 
And  guide  our  feet  to  their  abode, 

And  show  where  we  must  tread. 
Then  let  the  souls  whom  Christ  sets  free, 

Ere  yet  that  light  be  dim, 
Be  strong,  O  Paul,  to  follow  thee, 

As  thou  hast  followed  Him. 


SAINT  STEPHEN. 

With  awful  dread  his  murderers  shook, 

As,  radiant  and  serene, 
The  lustre  of  his  dying  look 

Was  like  an  angel's  seen, 
Or  Moses'  face  of  paly  light, 

When  down  the  mount  he  trod, 
All  glowing  from  the  glorious  sight 

And  presence  of  his  God. 


To  us,  with  all  his  constancy, 

Be  his  rapt  vision  given, 
To  look  above  by  faith,  and  see 

Revealments  bright  from  heaven, 
And  power  to  speak  our  triumphs  out 

As  our  last  hour  draws  near, 
While  neither  clouds  of  fear  nor  doubt 

Before  our  view  appear. 


HYMN  FOR    SAINT  MATTHEW'S  DAY. 

And  as  Jesus  passed  forth,  he  saw  a  man  named  Matthew  sit- 
ting at  the  receipt  of  custom,  and  he  saith  unto  him,  Follow  me ; 
and  he  arose  and  followed  him.  —  Gospel  for  the  Day. 

By  Babel's  piles,  how  heavenly  fair 

To  see  God's  light  dispel, 
With  beams  divine,  the  stifled  air 

Of  Mammon's  gloomiest  cell ! 
It  cheers  the  soul  that  even  there 

Our  holy  faith  may  dwell, 
And  thrive  amid  the  dreary  glare 

Of  this  world's  citadel. 

There  still  the  Saviour  makes  his  call, 
Drowned  though  the  accents  be ; 

O  "  Lord,  make  Matthews  of  us  all," 
To  rise  and  follow  thee  ; 


HYMN  FOR  SAINT  MATTHEW'S  DAY.  231 

To  leave  whate'er  we  prize  as  gold ; 

Our  treasure  and  our  heart 
Transfer,  where  we  may  safe  behold 

Earth  and  her  idols  part. 

Thus,  as  our  feet  through  labyrinths  glide, 

O,  let  thy  voice  sublime 
Be  heard  above  the  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime ; 
And  as  our  busy  task  is  plied 

By  dusky  lane  and  mart, 
Its  unction  ever  there  abide 

Like  music  in  the  heart. 


SAINT  ANDREW'S  DAY. 

O  Saviour,  for  whose  blessed  sake 

Saint  Andrew  left  his  all, 
Beside  the  Galilean  lake, 

As  soon  as  Thou  didst  call ; 
Grant  us,  thy  servants,  later  born, 

That  grace  which  led  thee  first 
To  bear  the  cross  of  shame  and  scorn, 

And  to  endure  the  worst. 

While  skiff,  and  net,  and  hempen  coil, 

The  tackle  and  the  oar, 
Remind  us  of  their  patient  toil 

The  fisher's  part  who  bore, 
O,  teach  us  what  our  work  must  be, 

Their  fellowship  to  win 
Who  follow  them  and  follow  thee, 

In  holy  discipline. 

232 


SAINT  ANDREW'S  DAY. 


233 


And  let  no  follower  come  alone, 

But  each  his  kindred  bring, 
As  Andrew  did,  to  see  and  own 

One  common  Lord  and  King ; 
To  count,  like  him,  all  gain  but  loss, 

To  tread  temptation  down, 
And,  through  the  triumph  of  the  cross, 

Secure  a  glorious  crown. 


158 


8JGGB00G& 


•: 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL    HYMN. 

The  sparrow  finds  a  house, 

The  little  bird  a  nest ; 
Deep  in  thy  dwelling,  Lord,  they  come. 

And  fold  their  young  to  rest. 
And  shall  we  be  afraid 

Our  little  ones  to  bring 
Within  thine  ancient  altar's  shade, 

And  underneath  thy  wing  ? 

There  guard  them  as  thine  eye, 

There  keep  them  without  spot, 
That  when  the  spoiler  passeth  by 

Destruction  touch  them  not. 
There  nerve  their  souls  with  might, 

There  nurse  them  with  thy  love, 
There  plume  them  for  their  final  flight 

To  blessedness  above. 


THE   UPPER  ROOM, 

IN  WHICH    A   SUNDAY-SCHOOL  WAS   KEPT. 

Though  steep  and  narrow  is  the  way, 
And  perilous  each  stair, 

How  many  little  feet  to-day- 
Have  safely  clambered  there ! 

And  thus,  whate'er  life's  trials  be, 
Still  upward  may  they  press, 

Till  with  their  angels  they  shall  see 
God's  face  in  righteousness. 


Here  be  faith's  ladder  fixed  secure 

Whereon  their  souls  may  rise, 
And  make,  through  Christ,  their  entrance  sure 

To  mansions  in  the  skies. 
And  on  that  day  when  last  are  first, 

And  heaven's  high  gates  draw  near, 
O,  be  it  theirs  to  hear  the  burst 

Of  welcome,  "  Come  up  here  !  " 

28* 


FLOWERS. 

"  The  lilies  of  the  field,  how  they  grow !  "  —  Sermon  on  the  Mount 

Thou,  who  hast  taught  us  how  to  prize 

The  truths  which  nature's  fragrant  maze, 
In  glories  of  unnumbered  dyes, 

To  our  enraptured  sense  conveys, 
Be  with  us  in  the  festal  hour, 

And,  while  the  clouds  of  incense  swim 
In  homage  from  each  chaliced  flower, 

Accept,  with  these,  our  grateful  hymn. 


Amid  the  city's  stunning  din 

Thy  mute  but  radiant  power  we  bless, 
That,  through  its  dusty  depths,  pours  in 

Such  gleams  of  vernal  loveliness ; 
That  here  thy  odorous  blooms  impart, 

Above  all  art  or  man's  device, 
A  spell  to  soothe  pale  Labour's  heart, 

As  with  the  airs  of  paradise. 


FLOWERS.  237 

Nor  let  the  influence  rest,  till  all 

The  dear  delights  in  Eden  nursed, 
Recovered  from  their  primal  fall, 

Like  these,  shine  brightly  as  at  first ; 
Till  man  himself,  redeemed  from  stain, 

His  heaven-taught  work  in  Christ  complete, 
And,  through  one  greater  Man,  regain 

An  entrance  to  the  blissful  seat. 


^Sf^® 


HYMN, 

FOR   THE  CHAPEL  OF   A   LUNATIC   HOSPITAL. 

The  dearest  room  of  all  this  pile, 

A  pile  to  mercy  dear, 
Lord,  hallow  with  thy  gladdening  smile, 

And  grant  thy  presence  here. 
To  Thee  its  walls  we  set  apart, 

Who,  in  our  flesh  enshrined, 
Art  pledged  to  heal  the  broken  heart, 

And  feel  for  human  kind. 


Be  here,  our  great  perpetual  Guest, 

O  Saviour,  night  and  day, 
To  give  the  heavy-laden  rest, 

And  bear  their  griefs  away. 
With  that  still  voice  that  melts  the  soul 

In  soothing  prayer  and  psalm, 
The  tumult  of  our  thoughts  control 

To  thy  divinest  calm. 


HYMN.  239 

Here  tune  anew  the  jarring  sense, 

Life's  springs  uncoiled  rewind, 
And  garnish  for  thy  residence 

The  mansions  of  the  mind  ; 
Ascend,  O  Son  of  God,  thy  throne, 

Bow  reason  to  thy  sway, 
Till  in  thy  light  we  find  our  own, 

And  darkness  turned  to  day ! 


•  r  3  • 


BAPTISMAL  HYMN.« 

Let  the  infant  soldier  now 

With  the  hallowed  cross  be  signed ; 
Bind  the  frontlet  on  his  brow 

Time  and  death  cannot  unbind  ! 
Words  of  earnest  faith  and  prayer, 

Drops  of  consecrated  dew, 
They  can  work  a  wonder  there 

Earth's  enchantments  never  knew. 

Happy  mother !  sealed  and  blessed, 

To  your  arms  your  treasure  take  ; 
With  the  Saviour's  mark  impressed, 

Nurse  it  for  the  Saviour's  sake. 
So  the  holy  work  begins, 

Ever  doing,  never  done, 
Till,  redeemed  from  all  our  sins, 

Heaven's  eternal  crown  be  won. 

a  The  reader  should  be  apprised  that  this  Hymn  is  not  original 
in  thought  and  sentiment,  though  the  versification  is  the  author's 
own.  It  may  be  considered  as  a  paraphrase  of  two  stanzas  of 
Keble*s  "  Holy  Baptism." 

910 


CHARITY  HYMN. 

"  Freely  ye  have  received,  freely  give." 

Thou  who  on  earth  didst  sympathize 

With  mortal  care  and  fear, 
And  all  the  frail  and  fleshly  ties 

That  man  to  man  endear, 
The  sorrower's  prayer,  the  sufferer's  sighs, 

Still  reach  Thy  gracious  ear. 

Though,  pierced  by  many  a  pang  below, 

The  heart  may  sorely  ache, 
Touched  with  a  feeling  of  our  woe, 

A  bond  no  time  can  break, 
Thou  wilt  not  leave  us,  Lord !  we  know 

Thou  never  wilt  forsake. 

P  241 


242 


CHARITY  HYMN. 


Freely  Thou  givest,  and  thy  word 

Is  freely  to  impart ; 
And  oft  as  from  that  law  we  *ve  erred 

With  unfraternal  heart, 
The  deeper  let  us  now  be  stirred 

To  be  even  as  Thou  art. 


@2# 


afrit  wlfrs^^  I 


ODE, 

FOR  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

Glad  tidings  waft  once  more, 
Angels,  who  hymned  of  yore 

Messiah's  birth ; 
Sing,  voices  of  the  sky, 
As  in  those  times  gone  by, 
Glory  to  God  on  high, 

Peace  on  the  earth  ! 

O  bright  and  burning  star  ! 
Be  not  from  us  afar, 

Distant  nor  dim ; 
Lead  our  frail  feet  aright, 
Silent,  but  shining  light ; 
As  on  that  hallowed  night, 

Guide  us  to  Him. 

243 


244  ODE. 

Give  thou  thy  people  grace, 
Saviour !  -who  seek  thy  face 

This  favoured  day. 
Incense  and  odours  sweet 
May  not  thy  coming  greet, 
But  hearts  are  at  thy  feet ; 

Turn  not  away. 

For  in  thy  blessed  shrine 
Each  garland  we  intwine 

Incense  shall  breathe. 
As  each  before  thee  lies, 
Emblem  of  souls  that  rise 
Heavenwards,  where  never  dies 

Thy  fadeless  wreath. 


®^w^ 


/■  •-  --.-.-,         -     -  -    --.       -  -    -  -    -  -     -  -  2v 


ODE, 

FOR  THE   RE-OPENING  OF   CHRIST  CHURCH,   BOSTON. 

Awake,  0  Arm  divine  !     Awake, 

Eye  of  the  Only  Wise ! 
For  Zion  and  thy  Temple's  sake, 

Saviour  and  God,  arise ! 
So  shall  our  hour  of  gloom  be  o'er, 

And  we,  a  happy  throng, 
Wake  in  these  hallowed  aisles  once  more 

The  breath  of  sacred  song. 
To  Thee  we  '11  lift  our  grateful  voice, 

To  Thee  our  offerings  bring, 
And  with  a  glowing  heart  rejoice 

To  hail  thee  God  and  King. 

God  of  our  fathers !  still  be  ours ; 

Thy  gates  wide  open  set, 
And  fortify  the  ancient  towers 

Where  thou  with  them  hast  met. 


246 


ODE. 


Thy  guardian  fire,  thy  guiding  cloud, 

Still  let  them  gild  our  wall, 
Nor  be  our  foes  nor  thine  allowed 

To  see  us  faint  and  fall. 
The  worship  of  the  glorious  past 

Swell  on  from  age  to  age, 
And  be,  while  time  itself  shall  last, 

Our  children's  heritage. 


SONG  OF  FAITH. 

The  lilied  fields  behold ; 

What  king  in  his  array 
Of  purple  pall  and  cloth  of  gold 

Shines  gorgeously  as  they  ? 
Their  pomp,  however  gay, 

Is  brief,  alas  !  as  bright ; 
It  lives  but  for  a  summer's  day, 

And  withers  in  a  night. 

If  God  so  clothe  the  soil, 

And  glorify  the  dust, 
Why  should  the  slave  of  daily  toil 

His  providence  distrust  ? 
Will  He,  whose  love  has  nursed 

The  sparrow's  brood,  do  less 
For  those  who  seek  his  kingdom  first, 

And  with  it  righteousness  ? 

247 


248 


SONG    OF  FAITH. 


The  birds  fly  forth  at  will ; 

They  neither  plough  nor  sow : 
Yet  theirs  the  sheaves  that  crown  the  hill, 

Or  glad  the  vale  below. 
While  through  the  realms  of  air 

He  guides  their  trackless  way, 
Will  man,  in  faithlessness,  despair  ? 

Is  he  worth  less  than  they  ? 


PARAPHRASE. 

M By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 

All  grow  not  on  one  common  stem, 

But  separate  and  alone, 
And  by  its  own  peculiar  fruit 

The  good  or  ill  is  known. 
How  blest  are  they  whom  grace  inclines 

To  bear  the  grafted  good, 
So  grateful  to  the  longing  taste, 

And  delicate  for  food  ! 


A  plant  set  by  the  river-side, 

It  spreadeth  out  its  roots, 
And  in  due  season  bringeth  forth 

Abundantly  its  fruits. 
Its  thick  and  verdant  boughs  are  like 

The  goodly  cedar-tree, 
Whose  shadow  covereth  the  hills, 

Whose  branches  reach  the  sea. 

249 


250  PARAPHRASE. 

But  God  shall  dry  up  from  beneath 

The  wicked  and  unjust; 
Their  root  shall  be  as  rottenness, 

Their  blossoming  as  dust ; 
Their  grapes  are  Sodom's  grapes  of  gall, 

And  bitter  as  their  sin  ; 
Their  clusters,  though  all  fair  without, 

Are  ashes  all  within. 

The  good  shall  flourish  as  the  branch 

Which  God  for  strength  hath  made ; 
Its  shady  and  refreshing  leaves 

Shall  never  fall  or  fade  ; 
But  withered  shall  the  godless  be 

In  premature  decay, 
And  with  a  fire  unquenchable 

At  last  consume  away. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 

0,  say  not  that  I  am  unkind 
To  friends  so  warm  and  true ; 

I  weep  o'er  all  I  leave  behind, 
I  sigh  to  bid  adieu. 

But  woe  for  my  eternal  lot, 

If  my  untiring  love 
For  Him  who  died  for  me,  be  not 

All  other  things  above. 


Such  is  the  law  of  Christ,  and  such 

The  Saviour  we  adore, 
I  could  not  love  you  all  so  much, 

Did  I  not  love  Him  more. 

251 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN. 

"  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not.'' 

Saviour  !  thy  precept  is  not  hid, 

Nor  is  thy  love  forgot ; 
We  come,  whom  thou  didst  not  forbid, 

And  man  forbids  us  not ; 
To  Thee  we  come,  the  Guide  that  brings 

The  erring  strays  of  sin 
Back  from  their  early  wanderings* 

Thy  fold  to  enter  in. 

To  us  thy  heavenly  grace  impart, 

And  let  the  words  of  truth 
Be  inly  grafted  in  our  heart, 

And  nurtured  in  our  youth ; 
So  shall  its  strong  and  thrifty  shoots 

From  year  to  year  increase, 
And,  with  thy  blessing,  yield  the  fruits 

Of  righteousness  and  peace. 


A   SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN.        253 

O,  with  the  seed  thy  sowers  sow 

That  timely  dew  distil 
By  which  we  may  not  only  know, 

But  love  and  do  thy  will. 
So  shall  its  rooted  strength  defy 

The  storms  of  life,  and  spring, 
With  ever-lifted  head,  on  high, 

In  ceaseless  blossoming. 

Though  feeble  is  our  strength  and  weak, 

Yet  do  not  thou  repress 
Their  near  approach  who  early  seek 

Thy  love  and  holiness. 
O,  hear  us,  as  with  one  accord 

Our  grateful  song  we  raise  ; 
And  out  of  children's  mouths,  O  Lord, 

Again  perfect  thy  praise. 


A  PRAYER. 

When  Thou,  the  vineyard's  Visitant, 
To  look  on  thy  degenerate  plant, 

Shalt  hither  take  thy  way, 
And  find  it  green  and  flourishing, 
Curse  not  the  unproductive  thing, 

Nor  to  the  dresser  say,  — 

"  How  long  shall  I,  from  year  to  year, 
Come  seeking  heavenly  fruitage  here, 

And  none,  alas  !  be  found  V 
In  vain  it  rears  its  leafy  crown 
In  barren  pomp.     Cut,  cut  it  down  : 

Why  cumbereth  it  the  ground  ?  " 


Lord,  listen  to  my  earnest  prayer, 
And  yet  a  little  longer  spare 

The  blighting  of  thy  frown. 
But  let  the  gardener  prune  and  dress, 
And  dig  around  its  barrenness, 

Before  thou  cut  it  down. 

254 


TRAVELLER'S   HYMN. 

11  In  journeyings  often. '' 

Lord  !  go  with  us,  and  we  go 

Safely  through  the  weariest  length, 
Travelling,  if  thou  will'st  it  so, 

In  the  greatness  of  thy  strength  ; 
Through  the  day,  and  through  the  dark, 

O'er  the  land,  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Speed  the  wheel,  and  steer  the  bark, 

Bring  us  where  we  fain  would  be. 

In  the  self-controlling  car, 

'Mid  the  engine's  iron  din, 
Waging  elemental  war, 

Flood  without,  and  fire  within, 
Through  the  day,  and  through  the  dark, 

O'er  the  land,  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Speed  the  wheel,  and  steer  the  bark, 

Brina  us  where  we  fain  would  be. 


3 


HYMN, 

FOR  SISTERS  OF   MERCY. 

Lord,  lead  the  way  the  Saviour  -went, 

By  lane  and  cell  obscure, 
And  let  love's  treasures  still  be  spent, 

Like  His,  upon  the  Poor ; 
Like  Him  through  scenes  of  deep  distress, 

Who  bore  the  world's  sad  weight, 
We,  in  their  crowded  loneliness, 

Would  seek  the  desolate. 


For  Thou  hast  placed  us  side  by  side, 

In  this  wide  world  of  ill, 
And  that  thy  followers  may  be  tried, 

The  Poor  are  with  us  still. 
Mean  are  all  offerings  we  can  make, 

But  Thou  hast  taught  us,  Lord, 
If  given  for  the  Saviour's  sake, 

They  lose  not  their  reward. 


HYMNS   OF    THE   ANCIENT   TIME. 


"  No  man  having  drunk  old  wine,  straightway  desireth  new ;  for 
he  saith,  The  old  is  better." 


HOROLOGY,   OR  DIAL  OF  PRAYER. 

Thou  who  hast  put  the  times  and  seasons  in  thine  own  power : 
-Acts  i.  7- 

Grant  that  we  may  pray  unto  thee  in  a  fit  and  acceptable  time. 
-  Psalm  lxix.  13. 


O  Saviour  !  I  would  spend  the  hours 

Canonical  with  Thee, 
As  tolls  the  clock  from  yonder  towers 

At  nine,  and  twelve,  and  three  ; 
At  primes,  and  lauds,  and  matin-bell, 

And  compline,  rise  and  pray, 
And  tell  my  blessed  rosary 

At  the  decline  of  day. 

Q  257 


BYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME. 

At  vespers,  and  at  nocturns  late, 

When  suns  have  ceased  to  shine, 
On  my  devotion's  dial-plate 

Still  shed  thy  light  divine  ; 
And  as  the  holy  vigil  yields 

In  turn  to  holy  dream, 
O,  let  my  Saviour  be  through  all 

My  glory  and  my  theme. 


MIDNIGHT   HYMN. 

At  midnight  I  will  rise  to  give  thanks  unto  thee.  —  King 
David. 

And  at  midnight  Paul  and  Silas  prayed,  and  sang  praises 
unto  God ;  and  the  prisoners  heard  them.  —  Acts  of  the  Holy 
Apostles. 

Thy  praises,  Lord,  at  midnight  broke 
Through  chambers  where  a  monarch  woke ; 
Thy  midnight  praise,  with  choral  swell, 
Rang  through  the  chained  Apostles'  cell  ; 
Alike  to  thee  each  place  was  made, 
In  palace  or  in  prison  laid  ; 
The  royal  pomps,  the  grated  door, 
The  captive  and  the  conqueror. 

So  grant  us,  Lord,  a  song  of  power 
To  charm  away  the  midnight  hour ; 


HYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME.  259 

In  prosperous  state  be  ours  to  sing 
In  spirit  with  the  Minstrel  Bang ; 
And  cheer  us,  when  our  hopes  are  dim, 
As  with  thy  servants'  dungeon  hymn  ; 
And  when  our  watch,  like  theirs,  is  done, 
May  worlds,  without  a  night,  be  won. 

II. 

COCK-CROWIXG. 

And  immediately,  -while  he  yet  spake,  the  cock  crew ;  and  the 
Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter.  And  Peter  remembered  the 
word  of  the  Lord,  how  he  bad  said  unto  him.  Before  the  cock  crow, 
thou  shalt  deny  me  thrice.  And  Peter  went  out  and  wept  bit- 
terly.*1 —  Gospel. 

The  Eye  that  softened  as  it  smote, 

While  crew  the  cock,  with  mighty  spell, 

Far  through  the  maddening  crowd  remote, 
Upon  his  shrinking  servant  fell ; 


"  It  appears,  from  a  passage  of  the  Talmud,  that  domestic 
fowls  were  not  tolerated  in  Jerusalem  ;  and  admitting  its  author- 
ity to  be  indisputable,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  reconcile  this  fact 
with  the  record  of  the  Evangelists.  For  as  the  palace  of  Caiaphas 
was  at  no  great  distance  from  the  suburbs,  the  crowing  of  a  cock 
without  the  walls  might  be  clearly  heard  in  the  stillness  of  the 
evening.  Unusual  as  it  may  have  been,  the  scream  of  an  eagle 
would  not  have  more  startled  the  ear  of  the  apostate  Apostle."  — 
Middletox,  Cheek  Article,  p.  143. 


260  HYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME. 

Then  woke  the  guilty  shame  within, 

And  conscience,  which  so  long  had  slept; 

And  He  alone  who  knew  the  sin 
Could  know  how  bitterly  he  wept. 


If,  Master,  we  thy  cause  betray, 

Oft  as  the  cock  repeats  its  call, 
Turn  not  thy  piercing  eye  away 

Till  we  are  conscious  of  our  fall. 
Like  Peter,  let  us  weep  alone 

In  sorrow,  secret  as  sincere, 
Till  Thou,  to  whom  our  griefs  are  known, 

Shalt  dry  the  penitential  tear  ! 


III. 


NOONDAY. 

Now  Jacob's  well  was  there :  Jesus,  therefore,  being  wearied 
with  his  journey,  sat  thus  on  the  well,  and  it  was  about  the  sixth 
hour.a  —  Gospel. 

O  Thou,  who,  in  the  languid  noon, 
By  Sychar's  well  didst  open  wide 

To  wandering  eyes  a  better  boon 

Than  e'er  their  fathers'  fount  supplied ; 

a  In  the  time  of  our  Saviour,  the  day  was  divided  into  twelvr 
hours,  equal  to  each  other,  but  unequal  with  respect  to  the  difcr- 
ent  seasons  of  the  year.  The  sixth,  of  course,  was  at  all  times  an- 
swerable to  noon. 


HYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME.  261 

Up,  where  thy  brightest  glories  burn, 
Our  fainting  souls,  at  every  stage, 

For  thy  celestial  succour  turn, 
In  this,  our  weary  pilgrimage  ! 

When,  from  the  sun's  meridian  glow, 

We  seek  refreshment  and  repose, 
Do  Thou  thy  heavenly  gifts  bestow, 

And  all  the  stores  of  life  unclose  ; 
Thence,  quench  the  fervid  spirit's  thirst, 

Thence,  fill  us  as  with  angel's  food, 
Till,  day  by  day,  our  souls  are  nursed 

For  their  divine  beatitude. 


IV. 

ANOTHER  FOR  NOONDAY. 

Peter  went  up  upon  the  house-top  to  pray,  about  the  sixth 
hour  ;  and  he  became  very  hungry,  and  would  have  eaten  ;  but 
while  they  made  ready,  he  fell  into  a  trance,  and  saw  heaven 
opened,  and  a  certain  vessel  descending  unto  him,  as  it  had  been 
a  great  sheet,  knit  at  the  four  corners,  and  let  down  to  the  earth. 
—  Acts  of  the  Apostles. 

Though  on  the  house-top,  Lord,  unseen, 
How  oft,  at  noon,  I  fain  would  rise, 

Where  naught  of  earth  could  come  between 
My  lifted  spirit  and  the  skies ! 


262  HYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME. 

But  short  the  conquest  over  sense ; 

On  rapture's  wing  though  high  we  soar, 
Too  soon  the  fleshly  influence 

Resumes  its  reign,  and  dreams  are  o'er. 

Yet  still  the  Church,  let  down  to  earth, 

Without  a  trance,  't  is  ours  to  see, 
Where,  cleansed  from  stain  of  mortal  birth, 

In  Jesus'  blood  we  all  may  be. 
There  may  the  soul  its  work  complete, 

And  with  the  hosts  of  men  forgiven, 
Enveloped  in  that  mighty  sheet, 

Be  safely  taken  up  to  Heaven. 


NINTH  HOUR,  THREE   O'CLOCK  P.  M. 

TIME  OF  DAILY  EVENING  SERVICE. 

Now  Peter  and  John  went  up  together  into  the  temple  at  the 
hour  of  prayer,  being  the  ninth  hour ;  and  a  certain  man,  lame 
from  his  mother's  womb,  was  carried,  whom  they  laid  daily  at  the 
gate  of  the  temple  which  is  called  Beautiful,  to  ask  alms  of  them 
that  entered  into  the  temple.  —  Acts  of  the  Apostles. 

How  dear  to  those  on  God  who  wait 
The  paths  which  to  his  dwelling  lead  ! 

And  every  Christian  temple  gate, 
Is  it  not  Beautiful  indeed  ? 


HYMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME.  263 

For  there  our  holiest  joys  unfold, 

And  trains  of  lovelier  graces  fill 
These  lowly  courts,  than  when  of  old 

His  sole  abode  was  Zion's  Hill. 

0,  as  thou  enterest  in,  be  sure 

To  try  the  spirit  of  thy  mind  ; 
Ask  if  its  love  to  God  be  pure, 

And  true  its  love  to  humankind. 
Bring  Faith,  and  Hope ;  and  be  Thou  nigh, 

The  best  and  greatest  of  the  three, 
Binding  in  one  delightful  tie 

All  heaven  and  earth,  sweet  Charity  ! 


VI. 


EVENTIDE. 

M  And  Isaac  went  out  to  meditate  in  the  field  at  the  eventide  ; 
and  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  saw,  and  behold,  the  camels  were 
coming." 

Beneath  the  shade  of  pensive  eve, 

By  Heaven  impelled,  the  patriarch's  mind 

Could  wander  from  itself,  and  leave 
The  grovelling  cares  of  life  behind. 

Led  by  the  same  almighty  love, 
When  all  below  is  dark  and  dull, 


2G4     HVMNS  OF  THE  ANCIENT  TIME. 

We  still  may  rise  to  scenes  above, 
Where  all  is  bright  and  beautiful. 


Our  souls  may  go  as  Isaac  went, 
And  find,  each  eve,  a  lovelier  field 

Than  e'en  the  gorgeous  Orient 

To  his  enraptured  sense  could  yield. 

And  while,  in  meditation  sweet, 

We  seem  to  breathe  a  heavenlier  air, 

All  that  we  most  desire  to  meet 

Shall  bless  our  longing  vision  there. 


^-^mm^ 


NOTES 


NOTES 


The  Sonnets. 

These  were  chiefly  the  product  of  the  author's  pen  in 
1827-8,  while  he  was  editing  The  Watchman.  It  is  not 
thought  necessary  to  preserve  the  dates  of  their  several 
appearances,  except  where  the  verse  requires  the  aid  of 
such  information  for  its  full  comprehension.  In  the  Son- 
nets and  other  poems,  quotations  from  other  poets  are 
often  indicated  by  italics,  as  preferable,  in  such  cases,  to 
the  ordinary  marks.  For  minute  information  with  respect 
to  the  poet  and  his  works  the  reader  is  referred  to  the 
"  Memoir  of  the  late  Rev.  Wm.  Ooswell,  D.  D.,  by  his 
Father,"  published  by  the  Appletons,  New  York,  1853. 


The  Fifth  Sonnet.  —  Page  7. 

The  warm  missionary  and  philanthropic  spirit  of  the 
author  is  beautifully  exhibited  in  this  Sonnet,  in  which 
the  ordination  of  the  Rev.  Jacob  Oson,  a  coloured  man, 
as  the  first  missionary  to  Liberia,  is  celebrated.  It  was 
written  in  1827.  See  the  twenty-ninth  Sonnet. 
267 


2G8 


NOTES. 


The  Sixth  Sonnet.  —  Page  8. 
The  labors  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Breck,  and  others,  among  the 
Indians  of  Wisconsin,  seem  to  be  here  anticipated,  by  the 
fervent  spirit  of  Croswell. 

The  Ninth  Sonnet. — Page  11. 
This  Sonnet  was  suggested  by  Dunlap's  picture,  which 
at  the  time  attracted  considerable  attention.     This  paint- 
ing lacks  originality,  but  is  a  composition  of  some  merit. 

The  Twelfth  Sonnet.  —  Page  14. 
This  Sonnet  was  originally  published  as  an  imitation 
of  the  antique,  and  in  the  old  orthography.  This  is 
a  natural  resoui'ce  sometimes  in  setting  forth  thoughts 
quaintly  conceived,  and  to  which  the  ancient  spelling 
seems  to  add  something,  by  suggesting  the  epoch  in  the 
spirit  of  which  the  author  writes ;  but  as  it  is  generally 
felt  to  be  a  blemish,  or  an  affectation,  and  nothing  is 
sacrificed  in  consequence,  the  modern  spelling  is  here 
restored. 

The  Twenty-fourth  Sonnet.  —  Page  26. 
Addressed  to  Mrs.  Sigourney,  as  see  the  Memoir. 

The  Twenty-fifth  Sonnet.  —  Page  27. 
This  was  the  first  of  the  Sonnets,  and  it  appeared  in  the 
first  number  of  The  Watchman,  March  26,  1827. 


The  Twenty-seventh  Sonnet.  —  Page  29. 
The  Rev.  Henry  J.  Feltus,  D.  D.,  Rector  of  St.  Ste- 
phens, New  York,  was  the  subject  of  these  beautiful 
verses.     He  died,  aged  53,  in  1828. 


NOTES.  269 

The  Twenty-eighth  Sonnet.  —  Page  30. 
The  lamented  Governor  of  Liberia,  J.  Ashinun,  Esq., 
died  at  New  Haven,  August  25,  1828.  The  Sonnet  relates 
a  real  incident;  his  mother  having  reached  New  Haven 
ignorant  of  his  decease,  entered  the  church,  as  here  de- 
scribed, during  the  funeral  services. 

The  Twenty-ninth  Sonnet.  —  Page  31. 
The  Rev.  Jacob  Oson  (of  whom  see  the  Fifth  Sonnet) 
sickened  and  died  before  he  could  embark  for  Liberia, 
to  which  port  he  was  the  first  missionary  ordained  and 
commissioned.  His  dying  prayers  that  God  would  raise 
up  other  labourers  for  the  land  of  his  forefathers  have 
been  answered,  by  God's  goodness,  and  who  shall  say 
that  he  was  ordained  in  vain  ? 

The  Thirtieth  Sonnet.  —  Page  32. 
Bishop  Doane  was  consecrated  to  the  Episcopate  of 
New  Jersey,  in  St.  Paul's  Chapel,  New  York,  October  31, 
1832.  On  this  occasion  Croswell  was  very  near  his  friend, 
and,  all  unconsciously,  the  editor  of  these  poems  was  at 
the  side  of  Croswell;  for  the  crowd  being  immense,  and 
pressing  upon  the  chancel,  the  writer,  then  a  boy  of  four- 
teen, was  pushed  so  far  forward  as  to  be  close  to  the  ven- 
erable Bishop  White,  when  he,  with  the  assisting  prelates, 
laid  hands  on  the  four  who  received  the  Episcopate  that 
day. 

The  Thirty-third  Sonnet.  —  Page  35. 
This  Sonnet  has  all  the  beauty  of  a  mosaic,  and  every- 
body will   at  once  recognize  one  of  the  little  cherubs 
in  the  Sistine  Madonna,  now  in  the  gallery  at  Dresden. 


270  NOTES. 

The  Thirty-fourth  Sonnet.  —  Page  36 
The  death  of  the  Rev.  Abiel  Carter,  Rector  of  Christ 
Church,  Savannah,  seems  to  have  suggested  this  Sonnet; 
so  prophetical  of  the  poet's  own  demise. 

The  Robin's  Nest.  —  Page  45. 
This  little  poem  was  written  at  Auburn,  and  the  author 
give9  this  account  of  it :  "A  pair  of  robins  have  made 
our  mornings  lively  all  this  Spring  with  their  cheerful 
notes.  A  few  days  since  the  female  was  missing  (our  cat 
probably  best  knows  how)  and  it  has  been  perfectly  dis- 
tressing to  hear  the  perpetual  lament  of  the  survivor." 
His  letters  and  poems  written  at  Auburn  generally  betray 
a  pensive,  though  never  a  repining  spirit,  and  it  cannot 
be  doubted  that  his  residence  in  that  place  was  a  sort  of 
exile,  which  he  felt  severely,  though  he  made  the  best  of 
it,  as  he  did  of  everything. 

A  Night  Thought.  —  Page  47. 
An  example  of  the  poet's  readiness  to  cast  into  a  novel 
and  original  form  something  read  elsewhere.    This  is  a 
mere  rhyming  (and  condensation)  of  Young's  apostrophe. 

Greece.  —  Page  48. 
This  poem  seems  to  have  reference  to  the  founding  of 
the  Mission  at  Athens,  under  the  Rev.  J.  H.  Hill,  D.  D., 
who,  for  thirty  years,  has  been  doing  a  work  for  Greece 
which,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  will  in  the  end  regenerate 
that  ancient  seat  of  poetry  and  heroism.  What  Wiclif 
did  for  England,  when  he  translated  the  Scriptures,  has 
been  virtually  done  for  Greece  by  this  patient  and  faith- 
ful missionary.  Its  Ridleys  and  Latimers  will  come  here- 
after. 


NOTES.  271 

The  Synagogue.  —  Page  51. 
This  was  written  January  2,  1832,  and  seldom  has  an 
American  poet  produced  anything  of  the  lighter  kind 
which  can  equal  it  for  the  undoubted  tokens  of  poetical 
inspiration  and  the  power  of  poetical  expression.  How 
many  have  gone,  with  curious  eyes,  into  the  Jewish  Syn- 
agogues of  our  cities;  but  how  few  have  been  able  to  in- 
vest the  scene  with  such  Oriental  beauty,  and  to  derive 
from  it  such  deep  impressions  of  Divine  Truth,  and  of  the 
Evangelical  blessings  yet  in  store  for  Israel ! 

Africa.  —  Page  59. 
This  poem  is  another  evidence  of  the  great  heart  for 
missionary  enterprise  which  the  author  had  in  him,  long 
before  others  were  awakened  to  a  spirit  for  missions,  — 
which  is  the  spirit  of  all  that  is  good,  including  civiliza- 
tion and  letters.    It  was  written  in  1828. 

South-Sea  Missionaries.  —  Page  61. 
This  also  was  written  in  1828.  It  proves  how  deeply 
he  could  sympathize  in  the  good  done  by  others,  for  it 
celebrates  a  mission  undertaken  and  carried  out  to  glori- 
ous ends  by  our  Christian  brethren  of  the  Congregational 
Board.  Doubtless  it  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of 
Dr.  Croswell  had  he  foreseen  the  action  of  our  own  Board 
of  Missions,  at  New  Haven,  in  October,  1860,  establishing 
a  mission  in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  which  we  may  believe 
is  destined  to  teach  the  Islanders  "  the  way  of  God  more 
perfectly,"  and  to  carry  on  the  work  among  the  myriad 
isles  of  the  South  Pacific. 

The  Meeting  of  the  Tribes.  —  Page  64. 
This  is  supposed  to  celebrate  the  opening  of  the  Gen- 


272  NOTES. 

eral  Convention  of  the  American  Churcl  in  Philadelphia, 
October,  1S35.  It  is  framed  in  the  spirit  of  "an  Israelite 
indeed,"  the  idioms  of  Palestine  being  accommodated  to 
America.  "  The  Lion  of  Judah  "  is  supposed  to  refer  to 
Bishop  Doane,  and  nobody  can  fail  to  perceive  Bishop 
White  in  "the  aged  High-Priest."  There  is  a  reference, 
too,  to  the  work  of  Western  Missions  undertaken  at  this 
convention,  by  the  appointment  of  a  Missionary  Bishop, 
now  the  venerable  Bishop  of  Wisconsin. 

The  application  to  modern  dignitaries  of  Hebrew  epi- 
thets, now  almost  wholly  restricted  to  the  Redeemer,  is 
infelicitous;  but  is  involved  in  the  very  nature  of  the 
conception,  if  it  be  resolved  to  carry  out  into  details  the 
analogies  between  the  modern  and  the  ancient  Israel 
of  God. 

The  Missionary's  Farewell.  —  Page  66. 
It  is  presumed  by  the  author's  father  that  these  verses 
may  be  those  presented  to  Bishop  Boone,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  sailing  for  China  (as  a  presbyter)  in  1837. 

The  Ordinal.  —  Page  69. 
This  poem  contains  the  poet's  recollections  of  his  own 
ordination  to  the  deaconate,  in  Trinity  Church.  New  Ha- 
ven, St.  Paul's  Day,  1S2S,  by  Bishop  Brownell.  The 
monument  of  Bishop  Jarvis,  near  the  chancel,  is  referred 
to  in  the  fourth  stanza. 

Recollections  of  St.  Paul's  Day.  —  Page  72. 
In  Christ  Church,  Boston,  in  holy  meditation  on  the 
event  celebrated  in  the  verses  on  "  the  Ordinal,"  the  au- 
thor produced  this  poem.     In  a  letter  to  his  father,  he 
says  of  the  expected  anniversary  :  "  Next  Sunday,  St. 


NOTES.  273 

Paul's  Da}r,  is  the  anniversary  of  my  being  set  apart  to 
the  ministry,  six  years  ago;  an  interval  that  seems  like  a 

dream, but  full  of  the  momentous  items  upon 

which  stands  our  account  for  eternity Let  me 

have  the  benefit  of  your  especial  prayer  on  the  noon  of 
that  day,  and  let  our  spirits  meet  before  the  throne  of 
grace." 

Christ   Church.  —  Pages  74,  77. 

In  these  poems  the  author  enumerates  some  of  those 
things  which  were  the  charms  of  his  appointed  place,  and 
to  which  his  references  are  frequent  in  his  poetry.  In 
particular  he  loved  it  for  its  fidelity  to  the  trvtfi,  during  a 
long  century  which  had  seen  the  Calvinistic  congrega- 
tions of  Boston  declining  into  the  secondary  and  tertiary 
stages  of  Puritanism,  and  denying  the  Atonement  and  the 
Trinity.  The  power  to  maintain  an  unchanging  faith 
from  age  to  age  he  regarded  as  given  only  to  the  Apostolic 
Church,  though  no  one  more  cheerfully  than  he  recog- 
nized and  loved  the  Christian  graces  of  thousands  of  in- 
dividuals who  belong  to  other  communions. 

Long  after  his  connection  with  this  old  church  had 
ceased,  he  took  me  to  see  it.  As  we  stood  together  in  its 
solemn  aisles  he  narrated  to  me  many  anecdotes  of  its 
past,  and  incidentally  owned,  that,  while  he  was  rector,  he 
often  passed  hours  of  the  night  within  its  walls,  in  prayer 
for  himself  and  others,  and  in  sacred  meditation.  He  then 
asked  me  to  go  out  and  look  at  the  spire  from  the  neigh- 
bouring churchyard,  and  while  I  did  so  the  bells  began  to 
play  a  favourite  psalm-tune.  Returning,  I  found  him  han- 
dling the  keys,  with  the  musical  score  before  him,  which 
he  had  copied  and  brought  with  him  from  home  in  order 
to  give  me  this  surprise.  The  almost  childlike  delight  he 
R 


274 


NOTES. 


eeemed  to  take  in  thus  awakening  the  old  bells,  gave  him 
a  beauty,  as  he  stood  playing,  which  I  cannot  soon  forget. 
He  then  climbed  with  me  to  see  the  bells,  and  to  take  the 
surrounding  view  from  the  tower. 

Christmas  Evening  Pastoral.  —  Page  79. 
A  lively  description  of  the  scene  in  Christ  Church, 
when  it  is  decorated  for  the  feast  of  Christmas!  The 
"  angelic  row"  over  the  organ-loft  (here  poetically  changed 
into  the  rood-loft),  will  be  remembered  by  those  who  have 
visited  the  church  as  quite  an  important  part  of  the  old 
fabric.  The  little  figures  are  set  round  the  organ  (with 
red  cheeks,  and  not  very  ethereal  features),  blowing  and 
chanting  with  all  their  might. 

St.  John  Baptist's  Day.  —  Page  83. 

These  verses  were  written  in  the  vestry  of  Christ 
Church  (on  the  anniversary  of  his  Institution)  in  the 
solemn  prospect  of  retirement  from  that  beloved  charge. 
The  allusions  throughout  may  be  better  understood  by 
referring  to  the  "  Office  of  Institution,"  in  the  Prayer- 
book. 

Dr.  Croswell's  sensitive  feelings  had  been  deeply 
wounded  by  occurrences  in  the  parish,  and  he  had  re- 
signed the  rectorship,  in  the  truly  primitive  resolve  rather 
to  suffer  wrong  than  to  avenge  himself.  He  felt  it  to  be 
the  privilege  of  a  Christian  priest  to  forgive  what  the 
world  would  resent. 

From  the  Antique. — Page  86. 
In  this  poem  we  have  an  instance  of  Croswell's  fond- 
ness for  that   peculiar  face  which  the  old  orthography 
puts  on  a  poetical  production.    It  is  a  beautiful  rebus  of 


NOTES.  275 

his  family  name,  with  which  he  amused  himself  by  send- 
ing it  to  his  father  (as  if  it  were  taken  from  some  old 
black-letter  volume)  with  the  inquiry,  —  "By  what  art 
do  you  think  I  have  recovered  it?  " 

To  my  Father.  —  Page  88. 
To  the  old  friends  of  Dr.  Croswell,  the  Senior,  these 
verses  will  supply  the  place  of  a  portrait.  He  was  one 
of  the  noblest  looking  old  men  that  the  editor  remembers 
to  have  seen,  —  erect,  of  commanding  height,  of  dignified 
address,  with  a  patriarchal  sweetness  of  expression  which 
would  have  made  him  a  man  of  mark  among  thousands 
of  his  brethren. 

Epithalamium.  —  Page  92. 
Written  in  anticipation  of  his  own  marriage.  He  was 
married  to  Amanda,  daughter  of  Silas  P.  Tarbell,  Esq., 
October  1,  1840.  The  second  stanza  is  an  acknowledged 
versification  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  beautiful  peroration  in 
his  sermon  on  "  The  Marriage  Ring." 

Loneliness.  —  Page  99. 

One  is  often  lonely  in  a  crowd;  and  it  is  worthy  of  note 
that  this  tribute  to  a  romantic  and  holy  friendship  was 
written  on  the  noisy  anniversary,  July  4,  1833.  He  bi'oke 
away  from  some  of  its  festive  scenes,  and  produced  it  in 
his  retirement. 

Stanzas.  —  Page  104. 
The  death  of  Col.  Putnam,  of  Brooklyn,  in  Connecti- 
cut, in  1831,  inspired  these  stanzas.     He  was  a  son  of 
Gen.  Putnam  of  Revolutionary  memory;  and  his  daugh- 
ters, Mrs.  Grosvenor  and  Mrs.  Sumner,  of  Hartford,  were 


276 


NOTES. 


always  among  the  poet's  most  cherished  friends  and  cor- 
respondents. It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  among  the 
ladies  mentioned  in  the  Memoir,  as  adding  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  Hartford,  in  1827  -  8,  these  sisters  were  con- 
spicuous. 

In  Memory  of  D.  W.  —  Page  106. 
Daniel  Whiting,  one  of  the  poet's  classmates,  died  in 
1832.  He  seems  to  have  loved  him  dearly.  The  words 
in  italics  are  quoted  from  the  Prayer-book,  and  by  the 
play  on  the  word  haven,  New  Haven  is  indicated  as  the 
fair  city  which  he  so  extols. 

To  my  Namesake.  —  Page  108. 
The  Rev.  William  Croswell  Doane,  now  Rector  of  St. 
Mary's,  Burlington,  in  New  Jersey.  The  stanzas  are 
dated,  Boston,  Whitsun-Tuesday,  June  12,  1832.  The 
editor  well  remembers  the  mingling  of  paternal  pride 
and  delighted  friendship  with  which  Bi>hop  Doane  read 
them  to  him,  when  he  was  visiting  the  Bishop,  at  River- 
side, several  years  afterwards. 

To  a  Friend.  —  Page  110. 
Addressed  to  Joseph  P.  Couthouy,  Esq.,  embarking  for 
the  Mediterranean,  in  1833. 

To  my  Godson.  —  Page  111. 
Addressed  to  W.  C.  D.  aged  three  years,  March  2,  1834. 
The  beautiful  lines  of  W.  C.  D.  in  response,  dafed  July 
31,  1851,  may  be  seen  in  Dr.  Croswell's  Memoir,  by  his 
father,  p.  137. 

Lament.  —  Page  113. 
The  Rev.   Dr.  Montgomery,  Rector  of  St.  Stephen's, 


NOTES.  277 

Philadelphia,  died  March  16, 1834.  The  poet  says  of  these 
verses :  "  They  seemed  to  arrange  themselves  almost  spon- 
taneously, and  have  received  little  or  no  correction." 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Coit.  —  Page  115. 
These  stanzas  are  dated  March  1,  1835.  Dr.  Croswell 
adopts  the  reading  "  thirsty  arms,"  now  generally  dis- 
carded for  thirty.  The  river  Trent  is  said  to  receive  its 
name  from  its  thirty  branches.  Warton  says  there  were 
said  to  be  also  thirty  religious  houses  along  its  banks,  and 
as  many  varieties  of  fish  in  its  waters. 

Elegiac.  —  Page  117. 
The  Rev.  Benjamin  Davis  Winslow,  a  young  divine  and 
poet  of  high  promise,  died  at  Burlington,  in  November, 
1839.    See  Croswell' s  Memoir,  p.  231.    His  poems  should 
be  collected  and  published. 

Bishop  White.  —  Page  119. 
These  stanzas  seem  to  commemorate  the  scene  in  St. 
Paul's  Chapel,  New  York,  when  the  four  bishops  were 
consecrated,  Oct.  31,  1832.     See  above,  note  on  the  Thir- 
tieth Sonnet. 

Bishop  Griswold.  —  Page  121. 
This  tribute  to  Bishop  Griswold,  followed  by  another  to 
Bishop  Hobart,  reminds  the  editor  that  these  two  prelates 
were  consecrated  to  the  Episcopate,  kneeling  side  by  side, 
in  1811.  How  unconsciously  Croswell  paints  his  own  por- 
trait in  the  tributes  he  offers  to  departed  friends !  How 
large  his  heart,  and  how  superior  to  party;  appreciating 
alike  Bishop  Griswold   and  Bishop  Hobart,  different  as 


278  NOTES. 

they  were,  and  claimed  though  they  are  by  different 
schools  in  the  Church. 

Lines.  —  Page  124. 
The  Kectory  and  Church  of  St.  Peter's,  Auburn,  are 
here  accurately  described.  That  justly  distinguished 
prelate,  Bishop  Hobart,  died  there,  while  on  a  visitation  of 
his  diocese,  September  12,  1830.  These  stanzas,  beauti- 
fully engrossed  and  illuminated,  and  handsomely  framed, 
were  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  parsonage  a  few  years 
ago,  when  I  visited  it,  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  worthy 
clergyman  who  had  succeeded  to  the  rectorship. 

Memorial.  —  Page  127. 
This  memorial  was  written  in  the  Rectory  of  St.  Peter's, 
Auburn,  August  27,  1840.  I  well  remember  the  Rev. 
William  Lucas,  whom  it  celebrates,  as  a  man  of  pleasing 
manners,  and  a  clergyman  of  pure  and  consistent  char- 
acter. 

Ad  Amicum.  —  Page  128. 
Addressed  to  the  poet's  schoolfellow  and  friend  of 
youth,  Henry  Edward  Peck,  Esq.,  (March  12,  1846,)  on 
hearing  of  his  affliction  in  the  loss  of  his  eldest  son. 
Croswell  had  officiated  as  groomsman  at  Mr.  Peck's  mar- 
riage. 

Stanzas.  —  Page  131. 

These  stanzas  (the  last  written  in  the  Rectory  at 
Auburn)  were  occasioned  by  the  death  of  the  Rev.  E.  G. 
Prescott,  which  occurred  at  sea,  April  11,  1844.  In  a 
letter,  the  poet  thus  expresses  himself:  "  Prescott's  death 
shocked  me  greatly.  We  were  intimate  and  nearly  of 
the  same  age ;  and  /  have  some  similar  warnings  to  remind 
me  that  the  house  of  my  tabernacle  is  not  too  strong  to  be 
dissolved." 


NOTES.  279 

To  A  Child.  —  Page  135. 
The  "  little  musical  prodigy  "  to  whom  these  lines  were 
addressed  is  more  fully  spoken  of  in  Dr.  Croswell's  "  Me- 
moir," p.  99 ;  where  may  be  found  a  very  characteristic 
letter,  richly  illustrative  of  the  poet's  happy  way  of  deal- 
ing with  children. 

Home.  —  Page  141. 
This  is  one  of  the  author's  earliest  productions.     The 
two  following  poems  are  also  of  a  domestic  character,  and 
one  of  them,  if  not  both,  belongs  to  his  Juvenilia. 

New  Year  Thoughts.  —  Page  148. 
From  "  the  first  rough  draft,  among  loose  manuscripts, 
without  any  date,"  first  published  by  Dr.  Croswell,  Se- 
nior, in  "  The  Memoir."  The  "New  Year's  Thoughts," 
on  p.  152,  were  a  contribution  to  the  columns  of  a  friend's 
newspaper,  January  1,  1842. 

Valentine.  —  Page  157. 
For  the  playful  history  of  what  the  poet  calls  his  "  Silly 
Valentines,"  the  reader  who  takes   an  interest  in  such 
literature  is  referred  to  the  "Memoir"  by  Dr.  Croswell, 
Senior,  pp.  161,  162,  etc. 

The  Chapel-Bell.  —  Page  161. 

The  last  stanza  in  this  sportive  little  college  satire  is 
credited  by  the  author  as  follows:  — 

"  Ithuriel's  whisper  in  the  breakfast  bell."  —  JV.  P.  Willis. 
But  query  this  word  whisper  ?    The  poem  is  dated  Feb- 
ruary, 1820,  "  and  the  author  pretends  to  ascribe  it  to 
'  Mister  Peter  Pattieson,  a  late  lamented  classmate,'  add- 
ing, '  The  Eowley  papers  are  not  more  genuine.'  " 


280 


NOTES. 


An  Apology.  —  Page  165. 
A  projecting  rock  in  the  hills,  near  Greenfield,  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, is  known  as  •'  the  poet's  seat,"  and  a  little 
hollow  in  said  rock  is  called  "  the  poet's  inkstand." 
Visiting  this  rock,  in  1849,  with  some  of  his  friends,  the 
ladies  of  the  party  enthroned  the  poet  accordingly,  and 
called  on  him  for  an  effusion  of  verse.  This  Apology  is 
the  result ;  but  the  rock  should  ever,  hereafter,  be  sacred 
to  the  memory  of  Croswell. 

Architectural.  — Page  166. 
In  this,  and  other  satirical  verses,  if  the  author  seems 
to  be  severe  on  others,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  that  in 
"  the  Convocation  Poem  "  he  is  far  more  so  on  the  incon- 
sistencies of  his  own  co-religionists.  In  neither  instance 
is  "aught  set  down  in  malice;"  but  material  for  sober 
reflection  is  supplied  in  both,  albeit  under  a  sportive 
mask. 

The  Old  North  Cock.  —  Page  170. 
Of  this  jew  cf  esprit  Dr.  Croswell,  Senior,  says,  "  It  refers 
to  the  weathercock  on  the  spire  of  the  place  of  worship 
at  the  North  End,  in  Boston,  then  occupied  by  a  Unita- 
rian society."  Apparently,  it  was  one  of  the  many,  in 
that  city,  which  have  "  met  Avith  a  change  "  from  Calvin- 
ism to  the  views  of  Priestlev  and  others. 


New  Haven.  —  Page  172. 

This  is  the  mere  fragment  of  a  college  satire,  in  which 

there  is,  nevertheless,  much  beauty.     It  is  a  picture  of 

the  "  City  of  Elms,"  and  of  Yale  College,  which  cannot 

be  read  without  pleasure  by  any  one  who  has  visited  it. 


NOTES.  281 

Trinity  Church  —  of  which  the  author'?  father  was  rector 
—  is  very  felicitously  introduced;  as  also  is  the  allusion 
to  its  material,  in  contrast  with  the  brick  and  timber 
meeting-houses  of  New-England,  where  stone  churches, 
as  well  as  pointed  windows,  were  for  a  long  time  iden- 
tified with  "  Episcopacy." 

The  editor  cannot  but  direct  attention  to  the  poetic 
license  in  the  last  stanza,  in  which  Xew  Haven  is  cele- 
brated as  the  native  place  of  the  author.  In  a  classic 
poet,  how  many  theories  such  a  liberty  would  have  sug- 
gested to  critics  anxious  to  reconcile  it  with  known 
facts ! 

Lake  Owasco.  — Page  176. 

This  beautiful  lake,  near  Auburn,  is  gracefully  celebrated 
in  these  stanzas,  —  first  for  its  natural  charms,  and  then 
for  the  dignity  it  was  supposed  to  derive  from  the  residence 
on  its  banks  of  several  eminent  public  men.  But  in  the 
third  stanza  the  poet  pays  a  warmer  tribute  to  a  young 
gentleman,  Mr.  Myers,  a  parishioner  of  St.  Peters,  and  the 
Superintendent  of  its  Sunday  School,  who  had  wrought 
up  into  a  creditable  poem  the  Indian  legend  "  Ensenore," 
which  he  associates  with  the  lake. 

The  editor  caniiot  forbear  to  say  that  this  lake  was  the 
scene  of  some  of  the  most  cheerful  of  his  own  sports  in 
early  youth,  and  that  these  stanzas  are  peculiarly  pleasing 
to  him  by  the  pleasant  images  they  recall  of  bygone 
days. 

Albany.  —  Page  178. 
Lord  Byron  speaks  of  "  Albany,  near  Washington"  evi- 
dently mistaking  some  reference  to  its  Capitol,  or  State- 
House.     Lest  anybody  should  not  know  that  Albany  is 


282 


NOTES. 


the  capital  of  the  State  of  New  York,  it  may  be  proper  to 
say  that  the  allusions  of  the  poem  are  only  intelligible  to 
those  who  understand  that  fact,  and  the  local  traditions 
and  histories  therewith  connected. 


Psalms.  —  Page  202. 
These  specimens  of  a  projected  Metrical  Version  of  the 
Psalter  are  dated  "  St.  Peter's  Parsonage,  Auburn,  1840." 

Vigil  of  the  Circumcision. — Page  214. 
Written  apparently  in  1828,  when  it  appeared  in  Tkn 
Watchman. 

Hymn  for  Whitsunday.  —  Page  223. 
From  the  Latin  of  St.  Ambrose. 

Flowers.  —  Page  236. 
Written  for  "  the  dedication  of  the  Hall  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Horticultural  Society,"  in  1845. 

Traveller's  Hymn.  —  Page  255. 

This  beautiful  hymn  (incorrectly  printed  in  Dr.  Cros- 
well's  volume)  was  first  published  in  1833.  Something 
like  it  occurs  in  the  poet's  letter  to  his  father,  after  his 
voyage  on  the  Long  Island  Sound,  in  1826*,  when  steamers 
were  a  novelty.  "  I  felt  grateful  to  Him  who  is  the  Pre- 
server, as  well  as  the  Maker  of  men,"  he  says,  "  for  the 
tremendous  and  incessant  rumble  of  the  engine  made  me 
aware  of  my  own  insignificance,  and  of  the  awful  agency 
within  whose  reach  I  lay.  I  could  hear  the  waves  gush 
and  gurgle  against  the  side  of  the  boat." 

These  early  impressions  may  have  had  their  effect  in 
producing  the  hymn,  but  the  editor  is  under  the  impres- 


NOTES.  283 

sion  that  it  was  written  on  the  journey  from  Boston  to 
New  York,  when  the  poet  was  going  to  attend  the  conse- 
cration of  his  friend  Dr.  Doane.  The  late  Bishop  Waiu- 
wright  gi-eatly  admired  this  hymn,  and  marvelled  at  the 
facility  with  which  it  was  produced,  —  for,  unless  the 
editor  is  mistaken,  he  was  with  the  poet  at  the  time.  In 
1850  the  editor  travelled  with  Croswell,  and  while  they 
were  together  in  Washington,  obtained  from  him  a  copy 
of  these  verses  in  his  own  handwriting.  At  the  same 
time  he  learned  the  history  of  its  composition.  In  the 
following  year,  during  two  Atlantic  voyages,  he  derived 
great  pleasure  from  often  repeating  it  to  himself,  amid 
the  noise  of  the  machinery  and  the  tumult  of  the  storm. 

Hymn.  —  Page  256. 
This  was  written  in  1831,  for  the  Howard  Benevolent 
Society  of  Boston.  The  editor  has  ventured  to  give  it  a 
name  suited  to  the  present  state  of  the  Church,  in  which 
deaconesses  and  Sisters  of  Mercy  are  among  other  realiza- 
tions of  the  poet's  ardent  hopes.  Perhaps  we  owe  them 
to  his  faithful  prayers. 

Horology.  —  Page  257. 
This  series  of  hymns  was  begun  in  1834;  a  very  im- 
portant fact  to  those  who  would  form  a  correct  estimate 
of  Dr.  Croswell's  character  as  a  divine.  Long  before  the 
"  Oxfoi'd  Movement  "  was  known  or  heard  of  in  America, 
his  mind  had  received  its  cast  from  the  old  doctors  of 
Anglican  Theology,  and  it  was  never  changed. 
The  lines, 

u  And  tell  my  blessed  rosary, 
At  the  decline  of  day," 

might  justly  give  offence  to  any  one  who  should  not  per- 


284 


NOTES. 


ceive  that  the  word  rosary  is  here  used  by  a  poetical 
license  only,  or  as  contrasting  a  blessed  system  of  prayer 
with  a  superstitious  one.  Since  these  hymns  were  writ- 
ten, the  reactionary  follies  of  certain  perverts  have  made 
such  words  less  tolerable ;  but  nobody  could  have  dreamed 
in  1834  that  any  rational  being  would  ever  betake  himself 
to  beads  and  aves  !  It  is  curious  to  observe  in  The  Lay 
of  the  Last  Minstrel  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  uses  architec- 
tural terms  merely  for  their  beauty,  as  the  word  "  rosary  " 
is  introduced  here.  He  little  dreamed  of  the  revival  of 
Art  which  has  made  ridiculous,  for  glaring  inaccuracy, 
terms  which,  when  he  wrote,  were  simply  sounding  dec- 
orations of  his  verse.  Sir  Walter  created  a  taste  for 
architectural  study  which  has  made  his  comparative 
knowledge  look  very  much  like  ignorance. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


